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# Northwest Rendezvous

Michelle Annalisa Scott

Text copyright © 2012 Michelle Annalisa Scott

All Rights Reserved

To Jason, Lauren, and Danyel. You are the bricks upon which the future is built.
CHAPTER 1

She stood there, staring at the light from the neon fixture reflecting in the still, crimson pool. The shock of finding the body had her mind working slower than usual. Callie could feel her heart thudding as her gaze again fell on the dead woman lying at her feet. The coppery smell made her slightly nauseous. She wanted to run away but, as time and reality regained their normal speed, she thought _I_ _should be doing something_.

Only this morning the dead woman had sent an e-mail saying that she needed to speak to Callie about an important matter. The message had seemed a little odd because it had been sent from her smart phone instead of her work computer and had been signed 'Trish' rather than the usual 'Patricia Martins'.

Callie wondered what the important matter might have been. Surely, it had to do with her request to sell Farmington's Fabulous Pastries. Ms. Martins wouldn't have any other reason to contact her. She was prepared to have her application rejected but _not_ to find a dead woman in the otherwise deserted office suite on the third floor.

Callie slowly took out her phone and deliberately dialed 9-1-1. _How do you report something like this without sounding like a character in a TV show?_ she wondered. When the operator answered, she automatically said, "I want to report a murder."

Detective Alvin Baines sat across from Callie and waited patiently for her to have another sip of water. He thought he could see shock behind the composed mask of her face. He noticed that she held her lithe body rigidly erect. It was an exaggeratedly proper, business-like posture. _She's probably around 29 or 30._ he speculated. Her hair had a distinct auburn tint which accented her skin tone and deep green eyes. Good eyes, smart eyes. _They take in everything around her._ he mused.

But Baines was unimpressed by Callie's manner of dress. He didn't go in for the casual Northwest look that was so popular in the Seattle area. He preferred women to be 'feminine' in their dress. Low boots, jeans, and a crisp white blouse may do it for the tech weenies but he liked a woman in a skirt or dress.

_Back to business._ Baines thought. "Okay, so she sent you a message this morning, right?" He studied her face for any sign of change as she answered the question for the third time.

Callie stared at the detective for a moment. He was of middling height and what some people politely referred to as comfortably overweight. His sports jacket was clean and pressed but definitely out of style. The skirt pockets bulged slightly. He had a ruddy complexion that ran up to his thinning hair. What she noticed the most were his eyes. They were clear and penetrating. It struck her that they could probably peer into someone's soul to see the truth.

She nodded. "Right. And like I told you before, I don't know what she wanted to talk about. She just said that it was important." She was growing weary of this man's asking the same questions over and over. Was he just slow or did he actually believe that she would kill Trish Martins and then calmly report it to the police?

"And, when you got here, you found the body and called 9-1-1. And you didn't touch anything. Right?" Baines was looking at his notebook now, not writing in it.

"Like I said the last two times, I didn't touch anything. I did sit down in this chair because the 911 operator told me to wait here until the police arrived."

"You see, that's strange because someone has been through her things." Baines stared accusingly at her. "We found her cell phone and tried to look up someone to call about her. Funniest thing, there was nothing in the phone. Not even the message that she supposedly sent to you." Baines leaned forward. It wasn't really a menacing gesture but it wasn't friendly either. "And, d'you know why there was nothing in the phone?" His gaze bored through her.

"If the phone was powered but there is no data, I would guess that the SIM card has been removed." Callie stared right back at him. "And, before you decide that I took it out because I figured that out, I think you should know that I am something of a geek, so I know about things like SIM cards."

She was growing impatient and a little nervous about where this line of questions was going.

Detective Baines was trying to decide whether he believed her on not when a uniformed officer walked up to him. The officer had a large plastic bag in his left hand. Inside the bag was a woman's handbag. Callie noted that it was stylish but not expensive. It looked like one of those designer wannabes that you find in the discount stores.

As Baines took the bag the officer said, "We found this in a dumpster about a block away. I looked inside it and it seems to belong to our victim."

Baines ripped off the top sheet of the blotter calendar on the desk. Then he dug into the bulging side pocket of his sports jacket and extracted a pair of latex gloves. As he donned the second glove, it snapped definitively against his wrist. He removed the handbag from the plastic and opened it carefully.

_What?_ Callie thought. _Is he expecting it to bite?_

Baines lifted the dead woman's wallet out of the handbag. He carefully examined it, turning it from side to side as if looking for something.

"Ah! You're making sure that there isn't anything important sticking to it!" Callie was suddenly aware that she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

Baines gave her an annoyed look. "Yeah. Like maybe a long hair – your color maybe?" He sneered, seeing if he could provoke a rise from her.

"Detective, I told you, I have waited here since I called." She sounded just a bit defensive, even to herself. "I am sure that a firm this size has video surveillance. The tapes will prove that I did not leave the building."

"Well, they would but the system is down. Right now, everyone is relying on the roving security personnel and the card reader system for the executive elevator." Baines paused for a minute, mulling over a bit of information before he continued. "However", we do have the time that you clocked in at the desk. And we know the time you contacted 911 to report finding the body. And we know when the first unit got on scene. There really isn't enough time for you to have slipped out, dumped the purse, and then slipped back in to be here when the uniforms got here." He gave a slight shrug. "Guess that puts you to the back of the suspect list for now. Not off the list, but at the back."

Detective Baines placed victim's wallet on the clean calendar page. He opened it and began examining its contents. There were the usual items, driver's license, credit cards, coffee hut punch cards, grocery lists, crumpled receipts, and a wrapper from some breath freshening gum. From a back pocket, Baines extracted a photograph of two young girls. He looked at it thoughtfully, turned it over, and then set it down, face up on the blotter.

"No phone numbers, no ICE info." he said.

Callie was stunned by the photo. More stunned than she had been when she found Trish Martins' body. "ICE?" she mumbled.

"Yeah. In Case of Emergency – ICE". Baines replied. "Hey, are you alright?" He was suddenly aware that the color had drained from Callie's face. "You look a little green."

Callie barely heard him. His voice suddenly sounded muffled. She felt light headed and her stomach clenched as time and reality slammed into low gear again. She couldn't get the photo out of her mind. She didn't dare stare at it or she would just arouse Baines' suspicions again.

"Huh?" She came back to an awareness of what he was asking. "Oh, yeah, fine. I just didn't get lunch and I'm feeling a bit queasy." She lied to buy time to think. "Are we done here?" she asked. "I really need to get going. It's a bit of a drive home."

"Sure." Baines' reply held a note of genuine concern.

"You're okay to drive aren't you?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll get something to nibble on and I'll be okay." Callie rummaged through her purse for her car keys.

Baines wondered if she had some kind of blood sugar issue but he hadn't seen any of the things in her purse that you would expect to find if she were diabetic or someone with hypoglycemia. "Okay. And let us know if you have any plans to leave the area."

"Right, don't leave town as they say in the movies." Callie stood up to leave. She tried to make the furtive look at the photograph on the desk blotter look casual. There was no doubt about it. The little girl with the blond curls was her. But who was the other girl?
CHAPTER 2

It had been little more than a week since she found the lifeless body of Trish Martins and her life was starting to seem almost normal. Callie had been compulsively following the news about the murder. There was the sensational reporting right afterward. Last week there had been a press conference where a police spokesman said that they had some leads that they were following up on but that it was too soon to name any suspects. Now there wasn't any mention of it at all, which was just fine with her.

She really hadn't expected it, but Will seemed like he was trying to be a help through all of this. It turned out that he knew someone on Detective Baines' department. Will's friend had kept him informed about the case.

Callie had met Will shortly after moving to Bellington. He was on the city council and quickly became a regular at her coffee stand. When he introduced himself, he joked that he made it a point to know about 'strangers' in his town. It was kind of corny but kind of cute as well. Will told her that, being a former cop, old habits died hard and with no doughnut stand in town, he had to hang out somewhere. She liked that Will seemed to be able to laugh at himself. Yet, somehow, the humor didn't always ring true. There was a lot about himself that he kept hidden.

After a several chats at the coffee shop, Will asked her out to dinner at one of the nicer restaurants in town and she had agreed. Since then, they had shared a number of meals out together. Callie noticed that Will always behaved like a gentleman and seemed to be interested in her as a person. She was glad to have a friend in town and it was comforting to know that he had asked his police friends to keep an eye on her new business.

At some point, Callie noticed that her relationship with Will was moving very quickly; a bit more quickly than she liked at times. She was a strong, capable woman who welcomed other people's input but she also claimed the right to choose the path that was right for her. It wasn't that she didn't like strong men, she did, but Will had a way of getting people to do what he wanted, despite their personal inclinations. His manner of taking control was insidious, virtually undeniable, and unnervingly effective.

Before she was even aware of it, Callie had slipped into a situation with Will that was a lot more intense than she intended. It was great fun to be out with him. He took her to nice places, places she wouldn't have gone to on her own. But there was also something missing between them.

About the same time, she noticed that Will was pushing to occupy more and more of her time and attention. She worried that he saw their relationship differently than she did. It didn't seem to matter to him that the 'spark' wasn't there or that it seemed unlikely it ever would be. Even though Will was a good looking guy, financially secure, and possessed of a boyish charm, she realized that she would only ever think of him as a friend. To let him down gently and show him that she didn't harbor any romantic feelings toward him, Callie began to spend more time with her expanding circle of friend and to occasionally turn down his invitations.

However, she did continue to see Will and recently, over dinner and a little too much wine, Callie told him about how she had been forced out of her first coffee stand. Wine sometimes made her feel a bit maudlin and it allowed the past to encroach on a bit on her otherwise positive outlook.

She started at the very beginning, telling Will how she had convinced the manager of the grocery store to let her set up just outside the front doors of the store. In return for the space, she worked at being a great ambassador for the store. She made a point of telling her customers about the specials inside and eventually, her business boomed because people would stop and get the 'insider' information from her over a beverage.

After a few months, the manager was able to see an increase in his own business that could be directly attributed to Callie's coffee cart. He approached the corporate heads with Callie's idea of actually putting a coffee bar/café inside the front doors of the store. Of course, he didn't tell them that it was her idea but, as long as it worked out for everyone, Callie didn't feel the need to take credit.

Things really picked up once she was inside the grocery store. Callie offered the store's in house baked goods to her coffee customers. They were a popular accompaniment to her beverages and Callie always directed her patrons to the bakery in far back corner of the store so they could take some home with them as well. The manager wouldn't allow her to offer sandwiches and soups since her café was close to the deli. The café's proximity to the deli naturally drove traffic there and the manager didn't want a 'middle man' eating away at his deli operation's profits.

Despite this restriction, things were working out well for Callie. She was able to put some money aside and it looked like her dream of going to school and becoming a systems engineer was getting a lot closer. Callie's plan was to build up the coffee business, open a freestanding café and then, when the time was right, sell the works and go to school. She had been fascinated with computers since an early age and demonstrated a native ability to get them to do things that really wowed other people. But, like with most things in her life, the situation changed abruptly for the worse.

It seems that the supermarket's corporate heads really liked the way that her café was drawing customers. And, as with most corporate decisions, someone had decided that if an 'unknown' could make that much of a change, what would a 'name brand' do? So, on one particularly sunny June day, the manager came by to tell her that she had sixty days to vacate the space. Her café was being replaced by one of the new Farmington's Fabulous Pastry Cafés. Even to this day, she could remember the sun dimming as her world turned upside down.

Once she recovered from the shock of having her dreams destroyed, Callie slipped into her analytical computer mode, as she liked to think of it. She decided to start again but this time with a freestanding drive through coffee hut. It would take all her saved money but she had a plan. Farmington's did have wonderful pastry but their coffee was mediocre at best and they couldn't match her personality or customer service. That is when she struck on the idea of handling Farmington's Fabulous Pastries herself. She would beat them at their own game; and with their own ball.

As Will listened and made supportive comments; Callie could sense an emotion bordering on rage building within him. It only lasted a moment and then his rigid self control kicked in. In a tone that was eerily calm he said, "Well, I'm not surprised that Farmington is still pushing the little guys around."

"They ruined my family long, long ago and it seems like they're still trying to ruin people." Will slowly, deliberately took another sip of wine. She could see him checking to see if his self control was intact. His anger seemed so out of place amid the atmosphere of the restaurant. Of course, they were at the best table on the patio. The soft summer breeze, smell of the ocean, candlelight, crisp linen table cloth, and gleaming crystal made his flash of fury all the more noticeable.

Callie's interest was piqued and she asked him how Farmington's ruined his family. "Well, this is going to take some time so, howsabout another bottle of wine?" Will always got 'folksy' when he was passionate about a topic. It's what made him a natural politician.

"My grandma and granddad never made any bones about how the Farmington's had ruined their lives after the War." Heat began to seep into his words. He told Callie how his granddad had been hired on before the war and had done pretty well with the company. He was loyal and hard working. "But, after the war they cut his job."

Will explained how, late in the game, Farmington's chose a new direction in order to set themselves apart from the other large bakeries. By then, jobs with any bakery were harder to find, especially for an older worker. "Granddad struggled to find work but no one would take him on." Will's eyes betrayed his lingering anger.

Will took another long sip of wine and paused. He looked curiously at the wine glass, gave a soft ironic snort, and held the glass out toward Callie as if its appearance explained everything. "Finally, it was all too much for him; the shame of being unemployed; the shame of not being able to support his family. That's why Granddad sank into an alcoholic depression. His drinking ran our family into financial ruin; and it was all because Farmington's hadn't kept faith with their long time employees."

Will's story was punctuated by another pause. Callie could sense that he was struggling to control his anger at the Farmingtons as well as trying to avoid sounding pitiable. Will wasn't the kind of man to take even empathy well. It hurt is pride. "By then, my Dad was old enough to work and he helped keep the family going. After he married Mom, even with her working, they struggled to make a go of it."

"Dad had a strong sense of duty and he made Mom see that too. So they supported my grandparents until they died." An angry frown momentarily crossed his face. "That didn't leave a lot left over for us, but Dad said it had to be done. There was no one else to help them." Will continued with an obvious trace of bitterness in his voice, "The shame and expense of having an alcoholic father held my Dad back."

"But they did the best they could and here we are. It's just a shame that they didn't live long enough to see their son the councilman." He said in a false lighthearted voice as he mockingly toasted himself.

"So, you see, the Farmingtons had a terrible effect on me and my family too." he concluded. Will took a long sip of wine and twirled the glass, looking at the ruby liquid. "But, I have finally found a way to pay them back." he said with a disturbing, self satisfied smile. "Yes sir, we'll see how they like it."

Callie just stared at him. _What could he mean by that?_ she wondered.
CHAPTER 3

Yes, Will had been a help. He had vouched for Callie, although it turned out she was never seriously considered a suspect. He had even stopped by the coffee shack several times to 'see if she was alright' and check on how she was doing.

While he still couldn't be open with her, Callie had to say he seemed to be trying to be supportive. That is, he tried to be supportive when he wasn't meeting with someone about his decision to run for Congress. That Will had ambitions was undeniable. He had made the move from cop to councilman. Why not the move from councilman to congressman? Once he got an idea into his head he was absolutely determined to see it through. She guessed that was how he overcame his humble beginnings and moved up so quickly.

Callie was loading several sample bags of her premiere coffees, a press pot and various other items of coffee paraphernalia into her all wheel drive station wagon. "What are you up to now?" The unexpected voice from behind her caused her to startle slightly. She had not heard any approaching footsteps.

As she turned, she could see Will standing there staring at the boxes of cups, stirs, coffee bags, and all the other things she was packing away in the back of the wagon.

"Oh, hey!" Her voice sounded more than a little relieved and the tiniest bit shaky from being surprised.

"Just getting stuff loaded to go to Morriston for my demo."

Callie turned back to loading her car. Morriston was a small town about an hour and a half up the west slope of the Cascades. Despite its small size, Morriston held year round attractions for visitors from Seattle, Tacoma, and beyond. It was replete with diverse art galleries, elegant boutiques, folksy gift shops, charming restaurants, and snug little B & Bs. It hosted a wildflower festival in the Spring; great river rafting trips in the Summer; annual Highland games in the Fall; and the Winter snow sculpture event kicked of the season for snowboarding, skiing, and ice skating.

"Oh, you're still going through with that huh?" Will's voice held a distinct note of disparagement. He didn't move a muscle to help Callie get everything loaded, communicating his disapproval through inaction.

Callie stopped loading, turned and placed her hands on her hips. Her voice held no lingering trace of the surprise she had felt a moment before. It was clear, firm, almost challenging. "Sure, why shouldn't I?" She watched Will closely through slightly narrowed eyes.

Will took a deep breath. He was obviously caught off guard by the strength of her response. "No reason really. I just thought that with your recent upset and all ......" His voice trailed off. "Well, I just thought that you might be too rattled to go through with it."

Callie softened her stance a bit. _He's trying to be supportive_ she reminded herself. She gave him a smile and said, "Actually, it has helped to have something else to think about. I really want this account at the Morriston Inn. They do a lot of tourist trade and it is a good spring board to opening a café there. Once people get to know the coffee, they'll jump at the chance to get it even when the Inn isn't serving."

The Morriston Inn was a holdover from an earlier time. Unlike so many places that are open from dawn to well into the night, the 'Inn' as it was known only served dinner during the week and lunch and dinner on the weekends. That worked well for Callie. She could introduce her coffee through the inn, and then, with a couple of carefully crafted ads, get a large part of what was the lunch trade as well as the after dinner crowd into her own café.

Will looked at her with that charmingly boyish smile of his. "You know I just worry about you."

Abruptly, his body posture altered. It went from confident to tentative as he shifted his weight onto his left foot and scratched lightly behind his right ear. "I've been thinking, a candidate needs more than a girlfriend."

Callie was completely taken aback by the sudden and unexpected turn of the conversation. She stammered, "Will, what ... what are you saying?" She was sure that her mouth was hanging open.

"Well, I was thinking, we get along well..." He was almost stammering at first. Then his voice became determined and persuasive. "Darn it Callie, we should get married. I just think you would make a great congressman's wife and, who knows, if it all works out well, a super First Lady." Will gazed at her expectantly.

"Will, I'm flattered but..." She wasn't sure how to go on from here. "It's just, well, we have never talked about this before and, well, I have my business to run; I want to go back to school. I, I just don't know what to say." Callie wondered how he could just casually drop the fact that he wanted her to marry him. She corrected herself. He hadn't said that he _wanted_ to marry her, but instead, that she _should_ marry him.

"I know, I know. This is really fast, isn't it?" She was amazed. She had never seen Will backpedal on anything before. "But I do think you would make a great congressman's wife. We get on well, we have a lot in common, it's just ......" Again his voice trailed off. "Tell you what." he said. "Think about it while you're in Morriston. We can talk about it more when you get back."

Callie looked at Will. _He's back in campaign mode_. _With those looks, that charm, and his persuasiveness, he could sell ice cubes to Laplanders._ she thought. Callie was determined to not be rushed into anything let alone marriage. But, she didn't want to slam him either. "Okay, I'll think about it but that is no promise that I'll agree." Although she smiled slightly at him her voice was firm and unyielding.

Will didn't miss the cue. He knew she wasn't giving in like she should. His smile hardened. "You could do a lot worse, you know? Besides, everyone who has seen us together says we are made for each other."

"Will, I frankly don't care what other people think. I am my own person and I won't make important life decisions on the spur of the moment and especially not because other people think I should." Her tone clearly communicated her growing resentment at his presumption. She hated the fact that he assumed she would leap at the idea of 'making a good match.' She wasn't one of those weak willed women in a Jane Austin novel that traded happiness for security. Besides, she was doing pretty well making a secure life on her own.

Callie struggled to set her anger aside. She wanted to put this discussion on hold for now. The timing wasn't right and she really needed to maintain her focus on the upcoming demo at the Morriston Inn. "When I get back we can talk about this, alright?"

She could feel Will stiffen at that. His expression hardened even more. He wasn't used to being put off. Callie watched him closely. She could almost see the calculations going on in his head. He recognized that pushing her at this point would only strengthen her resolve to resist his proposal. Instead, if he soft pedaled it, he thought he had a better chance to turn her to his position. As he weighed the possibilities his expression relaxed somewhat. She could see him switch his tactics and it enraged her all the more.

"Okay then. That's all I ask. And I'm sure that you'll see that, while sudden, this is a great idea for both of us. We can really help each other. It'll be a great merger of our talents and goals."

Will looked at his watch and blurted out, "Ah crap! I'm late. I'm sorry I can't help you load up. I'm going over some new plans for the campaign with Micah today. He's kicking things into high gear and we're gonna dominate this race. Getting him is a real coup."

"See you later sweetie." He said dismissively, giving her a friendly peck of a kiss and his best campaign smile.

Callie stared at his retreating back in disbelief. He hadn't listened to a single word she said. He was still assuming that she would bend to his will. And he treated her like a fool, thinking that she couldn't see the change in his tactics. Most disturbingly she began to wonder, _Is that what I am to him too? Another coup to counted?_

"Will, you're _not_ taking me seriously." Frustration mounted in her not only at his presumption but at the fact that he had turned and dismissively walked away from her. She was sure he could hear it in her voice. Her pulse was racing and she had to take a deep breath before continuing. "I said I'd think about it but I'm not going to make a snap decision about anything. I mean, we hardly know each other. How do we know that we're even compatible?"

He spun around; a look of condescending irritation clouded his features. "Compatible? Of course we're compatible. I mean, don't we get on well? We're the same kind of people. We started from little or nothing and built ourselves up to be _something_. It only makes sense that we move to the next level of combining our talents, for everyone's benefit."

The cold, detached, businesslike assessment of what should be a purely emotional decision caused her to snap. "Combine our talents? Merge our abilities? Will, we're not talking about a business arrangement here. We're talking about romance, love, committing to each other for the rest of our lives. There's no balance sheet, no poll numbers. It's about emotions, about gut feelings; it's about taking a leap into the unknown because you know, _you know_ , that the other person will always be there to catch you; no matter what."

Will's lack of understanding was evident. His face was a mask of confusion. Callie had no doubt that he had never thought in these terms.

"You're obviously worried about this demonstration in Morriston. I'm sure that once it's over you'll be able to look at this rationally." That patronizing response incensed her.

He glanced at his stainless steel watch again. "We'll talk later. I really have to go."

_You pompous, presumptuous bastard!_ Callie thought. At that moment all her doubts about Will Sampson crystallized into a clear understanding of his character. Sure, he was handsome. He was ambitious. He was going places. But she was convinced beyond any doubt that she didn't want to go where he wanted to take her, or for the reasons he wanted her along.

She took a deep breath and struggled to control her anger. The tears of rage could not flow. No, would not flow. "Will, your arrogant attitude is not making this any better. In fact, not only do I not want to think about your proposal, I don't care if I ever see you again."

Will stood staring at her. He clearly had no idea what she was telling him. "You're upset. We'll talk after you calm down, Now, I really gotta go. I don't want to keep Micah waiting."

He turned again and walked back toward his offices, absently waving his hand as she had seen him do when leaving the podium after a political speech.

Callie felt herself shaking with barely controlled anger. Her mouth was dry and her breath burst from her in rapid pants. Needing some release for her tension, she turned back to loading the wagon and tried to focus her mind on her demo for the Morriston Inn.

"Damned right I'm upset. And it'll be a cold day in Hell before we talk again." She was muttering to herself as she shoved the various boxes into an ever compressing mass in the back of the wagon. She could not believe his insensitivity and oppressive belief that he knew what she wanted and needed.

Then it dawned on her how lousy Will's timing was. _What's he trying to do, sabotage me?"_ she wondered as she shoved the boxes around in the back of the wagon.
CHAPTER 4

Barry was pulling another perfect shot of espresso from the machine. When he joined Callie shortly after she opened she had no idea that he would become such an integral part of her business. Not only was he a top barista but he also had an associate's degree in restaurant management. His intelligence, easygoing manner, honesty, and innate sense of how to run a small business made him indispensable. Callie was able to do demos aimed at expanding the business because she could trust Barry to run things exactly as she would. She once asked him why he wanted to work for her. His answer was at once simple and flattering. "It only took one cup of your coffee for me to know that you're really going somewhere."

With a practiced flourish, he spun the black knurled knob to cut off the flow of superheated water just as the golden colored crema reached the top of the shot glass. "So, you got everything you need?"

Callie looked around her before replying. "Yep, I think so."

She was dressed in her customary jeans and shirt. Barry looked at her critically and then spoke again, his voice rich with good natured sarcasm. "And this is how you dress for a big presentation at a classy joint like the Morriston Inn?"

Callie rolled her eyes playfully. Barry's easy going nature always improved her mood. "Nooooooo." she replied. "I have my blue suit in the garment bag. I'm going to change when I get there. I don't want it all rumpled from traveling in it. And before you ask, I got my nails done this morning." She wiggled her fingers, showing off her fresh French manicure.

Barry smiled broadly, and assumed an air of mock seriousness. "I would hope so. I've got a manager position riding on this!" He and Callie chuckled.

"Hold your horses buster. I said you could manage the new café in Morriston _if_ this succeeds. There is a lot of work to do between now and then."

Barry put up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay boss lady. I'm just saying – don't blow this for me." He knew that Callie would be stunning at the presentation.

She was one of those people who always looked fresh and presentable but transformed into spectacular when they donned certain attire. He also knew that just as soon as she was finished, she would change back into her comfy clothes. He really appreciated that. It was one of the things he liked best about her. Callie was a savvy businesswoman but she wasn't a 'stuffed shirt.' Barry hadn't ever liked working for the 'suit and tie' set.

Callie smiled indulgently at him. Barry had ambitions of opening his own place one day, and she never doubted that it would be a success when he did. He told her that he wanted to learn from someone who had the same kind of drive and commitment to quality that he had. Not only was he good for the business, he was also good for her ego.

After a couple of months of working with him, Callie also discovered that Barry had a hidden talent. Not only did he have a head for business but he was also a talented Web and graphic designer. The fliers, coupons, ads, and website that he designed were quite effective at pulling in and retaining business. He also drew cute caricatures of some of the regulars on the daily specials board. It was his idea to name special drinks after the more creative customers. It all produced buy-in from the customers and they all loved it and him.

Barry put a friendly hand on Callie's forearm. "Seriously, are you alright? You look really bugged about something."

Callie looked at his amber-brown eyes. She could see his concern. But she couldn't bring herself to tell him about Will's infuriatingly presumptuous proposal. "Yeah, I'm still a little freaked about finding that dead girl."

"It's more than that boss lady." He gently prodded, encouraging her to open up to him. "Hey, you know you can talk to me. I can keep my mouth shut, no matter how much I run it to the customers."

She smiled at Barry. "I know. It's just something that I saw when I was talking to the detective." Callie had a habit of chewing softly on her lower lip when she was deep in thought. Barry noticed that she was doing it just before asking her question. "Have you ever seen something that looked real but it couldn't possibly be?"

"What, like a vision or a hallucination?" His voice was laced with concern.

"No, nothing like that. I was freaked to find her but I didn't slip out of reality." She playfully swatted at his shoulder. "It's just; I saw a photo from her wallet. It was obviously a print made from a digital scan but, I would swear that it was a photo of me when I was a little kid. I didn't have a good look at it but never - the - less." She said each of the last three words with exaggerated deliberation.

" Do you think that's possible?" her disquiet resonated in her question.

"I _suppose_ it's possible" he answered, "but I think it's more likely that it was the kid of someone she knew instead. Like you said, you didn't get a good look at it. There have to be a million cute, strawberry blond kids out there." He said, trying to cajole her into a better mood.

She gave him a brief 'friend' hug. "Flatterer. And it won't do you any good. You're still not getting a raise."Callie paused, obviously thinking about what he had just said. "I guess you are right though. I didn't get that that long'a look at it." She knew she was lying to Barry but she wanted to end the conversation for now.

Suddenly changing the subject, Callie picked up her purse. "Alright, so you have the keys, the bank deposit codes, and enough supplies to get you through the next couple of days. Anything else you need?"

"Nope." He grinned at her.

Barry had enough experience running the stand that she really didn't need to ask the question at all. He recognized that she was tense about something more than the demo in Morriston, even though she wouldn't tell him what it was. Her running through the list out loud was just her way of reassuring herself that all would be well.

"Now's my big chance to be in charge!" He gave her one of his famous 'evil villain taking-over-the-World' laughs.

In spite of herself, she burst out laughing. He really knew how to put her at ease. "Okay evil coffee mastermind, just don't scare off the clientele!"  
She stepped out the back door of the coffee shack.

"Right you are boss lady. Good luck and bring back that contract." He waved at her out the door.

Callie drove the wide, winding highway up into the Cascades. Her all wheel drive wagon took the turns with ease. The sun seemed to brighten as she drove. More likely it was that her mood was improving. When she left town, she was still having flashes of fury with Will for his presumption and disrespect of her. _How could he assume just because they had been out on a few date and commiserated over a few unhappy remembrances that she would marry him?_

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that as the wife of _Mr_. Will Sampson, her plans for her own life would never be realized. She shuddered to think of how he would try to utterly control her. Undoubtedly he would dismiss her dream of returning to school. He would probably insist on trying to tell her what she could do, where she could go, and who her friends could be.

Getting out of town was the best thing for right now. As Bellington receded into the west, she could feel the cooler mountain air clearing her head and chasing away her anger. Its sweet smell worked with the music on the CD she had popped into the player to restore her emotional equilibrium. As the miles from Bellington increased she became aware that her breathing and pulse had returned to normal and her nascent headache had vanished.

Had she been listening to the radio on her drive up to Morriston, she would have heard the late breaking news story. The police had named a person wanted for questioning in Patricia Martins' murder. What's more, shortly after the announcement, the Puget Sound's most famous bad boy, Blake Farmington had been taken in for questioning from his family's mountain retreat a few miles outside Morriston.
CHAPTER 5

Blake Farmington didn't look like a high powered executive and the heir apparent to a multi-million dollar business. Dressed in blue jeans, work boots, and a comfortable old flannel shirt, he could easily be taken for a day laborer or truck driver. His craggy face sported two or three days of bristle. His dark hair, while clean, had certain wildness to it. He hardly looked like the same man who's 'idly rich bad boy' reputation made him grist for the gossip magazine mills.

As he fiddled with the loose button on his left sleeve cuff he wondered what they would make of this. Now they could add murder suspect to his list of reputed hedonistic misdeeds and exploits. If the past was any indication, the truth didn't matter. The scandal mongers would undoubtedly be portraying him as the head of a ritualistic murder cult by this time next week.

He sat quietly in the cell at the Sheriff's sub-station contemplating how he would explain this to the family. They had always considered him 'a little odd' but this was over the top, even for him. Blake didn't fit the image of 'propriety in society' that his sister cultivated. He was much more prone to take what the family referred to as an 'earthier' approach to life.

He was bored by most cocktail parties and social events. He was painfully frank with his opinions which occasionally caused no end of scandal. Blake was a man of many acquaintances and very few friends. He preferred frank, honest company and sought it out even if it was among those his relatives called 'ruffians'. The family couldn't seem to grasp that he preferred the active outdoor lifestyle with all its discomforts and inconveniences to canapés and haute couture.

Despite the family's inability to understand him at times, Blake was still the heir apparent to Farmington's Fabulous Pastries although he didn't particularly relish wearing that mantle. He was hard working and, though ruthless in business, thoroughly ethical. He knew how to get things done. He didn't give a damn about other people's opinions so long as he knew he was doing what was right. His unwavering commitment to doing the right thing had won him a reputation for being a fierce but fair competitor.

That's why this whole situation made no sense. Why would he kill Trish? To begin with it just wasn't right. She was a great PA. They worked well together and there wasn't even a hint that that they were 'involved' emotionally. She never complained about working late to get a proposal or project report done. She even had come in to the office in the middle of the night to help with the calls to Asia.

_Asia! Damn it! This is sure to make that all fall apart!_ he thought. At this critical juncture any whiff of scandal would almost certainly scuttle the overseas expansion of Farmington's gourmet pastries. _Great! Now two years of wining, dining, and negotiations are shot, a great employee is dead, and some idiot without the sense God gave a piss ant wanted to blame him!_

Blake wasn't in the habit of having other people clean up his messes. And this definitely was _his_ mess. He wanted nothing more than to find out for himself just who had set him up.

That had been one of the biggest hurdles with Trish. Unlike the succession of PAs he had before her, she wanted more from her job than being a calendar keeper and phone answerer. At first, she had to argue with Blake to get him to even hand over small responsibilities to her. He had eventually relented more out of a desire to stop her persistent nagging rather than from any willingness to accept help.

He finally decided that having her research issues and resources for him made sense. He hated to use the computer and especially the Internet. Trying to sift reliable information out of all that clutter made him nuts. And he could never seem to find things very quickly.

Trish, on the other hand, demonstrated a positive gift for ferreting out information. She knew what he was looking for and was very efficient at finding it quickly. She even had the ability to dig out information that was 'behind the scenes'. Trish could find out where things were going despite the public hype.

A couple of times it had saved him from making decisions that would not have worked out well. That saved the company a lot of money and prevented what might have been really bad publicity. Trish was a resource that he could trust. Her contribution made him a better, more subtle player by wielding knowledge as a tool.

Blake once asked her how she was able to find out all this information. Trish just smiled coyly and said, "It's a gift." She would never say anything more and he never asked. Blake found that he became more efficient and focused at work with Trish's help. Why would he want to destroy that?

Blake thought Trish had the qualities to make her a great corporate executive. He talked to her about going to school and getting a degree followed by an MBA. Trish just wouldn't hear of it. She said that she was lousy at sitting still while some stuffed shirt yammered at her. But Trish did have ambitions for her future.

Blake remembered the day that she told him that she really wanted to make a name for herself as a chef. It was a surprise to find that the woman who managed his calendar, made his appointments, and kept him well informed through her research shared his passion for cooking. Trish had talked about trying to get on one of the 'next celebrity chef' competition shows that littered the cable and broadcast airwaves.

She was heavily into fusion cuisine and had some pretty creative ideas. She shared some of them with Blake. He had tried to be gentle when he told her that he didn't think that she had much of a chance against all the competition. Fusion was just too common anymore.

He caught her by surprise when he suggested that she instead compete in the less glitzy Cast Iron MasterChef competition. Trish had laughed at him saying, "I do _not_ do barbecue! You can keep the baked beans and coleslaw, thank you _very_ much." But Trish did listen to Blake as he explained his idea. What he proposed was that he mentor her and teach her to use game meats and other ingredients found in the wild to create gourmet meals.

"I have an idea that we can help each other. For years now, I have wanted to open a unique restaurant. One that takes its inspiration from the cuisine of the Old West. I want to combine cooking methods and ingredients of the indigenous peoples, the pioneers, and the immigrants into a kind of gourmet retro-fusion cuisine."

"And, where is it that I come into this?" Trish struggled to stifle the giggle that 'gourmet retro-fusion' evoked.

"Well, if you, as my protégé, win the Cast Iron MasterChef then you are a celebrity and you come to work with me as a junior partner in the business." He said it so matter-of-factly that it took a moment to sink in for her. Blake smiled to himself. The memory of Trish's surprised look, squeal of glee and neck breaking hug of gratitude softened the harshness of his current predicament, at least for a moment.

From then on, Trish was a willing and disciplined student. Cooking over camp fire was not an option since no one at her apartment complex would much appreciate the open blaze. However, Trish had found a way to at least simulate cooking that way. She secured permission to use the common area's fire pit and Blake arranged for a friend of his to make a portable wrought iron spit/ hanger system so she could practice various techniques like roasting, stewing, and brazing. Eventually, her practice sessions became informal barbecues for many of the other tenants.

Blake always planned the menus for her practice sessions as well as furnishing the ingredients. He wanted to be sure that whatever she used was legitimately derived and didn't cross any species conservation lines. Messing that up today could endanger their ability to get things for the restaurant later on. He was always planning a couple of weeks in advance because some of the ingredients were hard to get.

About six months into the cooking course Trish surprised him by saying that she would take care of getting the game meat for the latest menu.

"And just where are you going to get bear meat? Even a high end butcher shop can't supply it." Bear was not in season, and even when it was, it was hard to come by. Blake had a supplier in Montana who kept frozen game meat for him.

"Just never you mind, oh great master. A girl is entitled to her secrets. All that matters is there will be bear for the menu." She gave him a knowing smile.

Sure enough, Trish procured the required meat. It was so good that Blake thought it must be fresh but, that wasn't possible since bear season was still months off. When he asked her about where she got it, Trish again assumed a coy attitude. "I told you. A girl is entitled to her secrets. Let's just say that I have a friend."

He didn't push the issue and she never raised it again. However, whenever bear was on the menu, she always managed to procure the same, high quality meat. Because he trusted her, Blake and Trish developed their own version of don't ask; don't tell.

The memories of those happier days snapped off like a light switch as reality came crashing back. There were so many unanswered questions. How could anyone in their right mind think that he killed Trish; and in the office yet! What kind of moron would kill someone outside his office door? And why had Trish been there anyway? She knew that he was going to the mountains for a couple of days and she was supposed to be practicing the new recipes for the Cast Iron MasterChef Competition.

Blake was roused from his reverie by the voice of the young deputy who said he was there to 'look after' him. "Mr. Farmington? Are you alright sir? Not feeling desperate are you?" the young man actually sounded a bit worried.

"No, not desperate." He looked up with a wry smile. Blake's blue eyes darkened as his gaze settled on the deputy. "I assure you officer, I am not suicidal. Confused, shocked, pissed off even but not suicidal. I have too much to live for, like finding the slime that did this to Trish and me and ..." His voice trailed off.

No sense making things worse for himself. Vague threats just sounded empty and they could come back to haunt him in court. Besides, how was he ever going to find out who was responsible if he couldn't get out of here? Old Jamison might be able to get him out on bail but Blake knew that he would have no chance if they even suspected he might do violence out of revenge.

The deputy just looked at him for a second. "Good." The relief in his voice was palpable. "I wouldn't want that kind of trouble my first month out of the academy. By the way, you should call me deputy, not officer. I'm not with the police; I'm with the sheriff's department."

"Good to know. I'll work at remembering that. So, did you want something from me?" Blake snorted at the earnest youth

"Oh, oh yeah!" The young deputy stammered a bit. "I came back to tell you that we heard from your lawyer's secretary. She said that he would be here in an hour. That was about twenty minutes ago."

"Thanks. By the way, she's not his secretary. She's his paralegal." Blake smirked. He couldn't resist the temptation to take the jab at the newbie.

The young deputy wore a very serious expression. "Hmm. Good to know." Then his expression brightened as he continued. "I appreciate the heads up – I still have a lot to learn about etiquette in the system. Wouldn't do to offend anyone right off the bat."

The deputy receded down the short hallway, shutting the access door behind him. Blake stared at him incredulously. "Well, with talent like that, it's no wonder someone could believe I killed Trish." He shook his head ruefully and leaned back against the wall to wait.

As he sat in the silence of the cell, Blake pondered just who would want to frame him for murder and why. He had made both business and social enemies. But their attacks had always been launched against him in the boardroom or in the court of public opinion.

Rumor, innuendo, gossip, insinuation. These were the civilized weapons used in business and in (so called) polite society. There was nothing polite about the vicious lies that were told but no one ever resorted to physical violence. It just wasn't done. Physical violence was held to be in 'bad taste'.

But someone had done violence, and to an innocent person. Whoever had killed Trish didn't just want to attack him. Blake knew that their goal was to utterly destroy him, and through him, his entire family.

Malcolm Jamison was every inch of what you would expect a high priced, senior member of an established and respected law firm should look like. He was always immaculately dressed, although his patrician bearing was somewhat stooped now. His grey hair was turning white and it was cut and combed into a style that had not been popular for forty years. He was obviously the senior partner in Jamison, Jamison, and Scott.

The other Jamison had been his son, Michael. Blake and Michael were at school together. Michael was one of the honest, frank 'ruffians' that his family so frequently disapproved of.

When they graduated, they both joined their family's businesses; Blake reluctantly, Michael enthusiastically. Michael saw being lawyer as a civic duty, almost a sacred trust. Blake had often teased him by telling 'lawyer jokes' and reminding him that most people agreed with Shakespeare when he wrote, 'Kill all the lawyers."

Michael was undeterred. He never stopped seeking new and better ways to serve. One day he came in to his father's office and told him that he would need some time off work. Malcolm, naturally, agreed to the request before asking why. When he did, Michael caught him by surprise by saying that he had joined the Army National Guard as a JAG officer.

Two years later, Michael was activated and sent to Afghanistan as a legal officer. As usual, he was excited by this 'opportunity' although Malcolm was worried. Michael assured his father that everything was going to be alright. He was being based in Kabul and would be in no danger. Sadly, it was Malcolm who was proven correct. Michael was killed by a car bomb as he was entering a secure compound. It was a senseless, needless death. Malcolm was devastated at the loss of his only son. His health suffered and he began to visibly age. Almost overnight, he'd lost the ruddy, just scrubbed complexion that so many expensive lawyers and doctors have. Still, when the Farmingtons called, he felt it his duty to handle the matter himself, at least initially.

Blake was shown into the interview room where Malcolm Jamison was waiting. He stopped abruptly upon entering the room. It had been six months since he last saw the elder Jamison and he was shocked by how much the man had aged.

"Hello my boy." Jamison's greeting held a note of reserve. "What's all this nonsense, now?" He gestured toward the gray metal chair across the table from his own.

The young deputy who was so anxious about etiquette stood rigidly still. Suddenly his eyes widened as if suddenly coming awake to a surprise. "I'll leave you two alone." He paused and turned in the doorway, the knob of the door in his hand. "This locks but, if you need anything just knock. I can't hear what you say but I can sure hear knocking." With that, he left.

"So, why don't we start with where you were on the day this girl died?" He took out a legal pad and his Mont Blanc pen from his battered briefcase.

"I was at the retreat like I told Trish I would be." Blake's tone shifted from flat to sharp as he sat forward in the cold metal chair."And before you ask, no, no one saw me. I took the logging road to avoid town so I don't even have that much corroboration."

Jamison suddenly made a rasping, humming sound that quickly became a cough. The cough became a coughing spell. His expensive fountain pen fell to the floor and the legal pad was quickly being covered by drops of spittle. Reflexively, Blake shot up from his chair and was around the table supportively holding the shoulders of the older man "Are you alright?"

It was obvious that Jamison was having trouble catching his breath. Blake rushed to the door and pounded furiously on it, shouting for the Deputy to call 911. The young deputy opened the door. His look of helpful curiosity melted into near panic. Obviously he couldn't hear what was going on in the room. However, with the door ajar, he became alarmed.

"Is he having a heart attack?" The deputy was obviously out of his depth _._

_Too new to know what to do._ Blake thought.

"I don't know but he needs help – NOW!" Blake was shouting with urgency. " For pity's sake, call 911 man!" Without a word, the young man turned and ran for the phone, leaving the door unlatched.

Malcolm was making a downward waving gesture with his left hand. His right was holding a monogrammed linen handkerchief to his mouth. Blake drew nearer so he could hear what the elderly man was saying between gasps of air. "Alright..... alright. Inhaled ..... spit! Not a heart attack..... Alright." The coughing began to subside.

"Are you sure?" Blake asked anxiously.

Malcolm nodded, coughing less this time. "Yes, I'm alright." He reassured Blake through another rasping intake of air.

At that moment impulse took over. Blake looked at the door standing ajar. "You're really sure?" He had to ask again for his own peace of mind.

Malcolm blotted his mouth with the handkerchief and nodded. "Quite sure."

"Good." Blake patted his shoulder reassuringly as he slid out of the open door.

"Blake!" Jamison's voice rasped as he started to rise from his metal chair. That set off another spell. The attorney fell back onto the seat trying unsuccessfully to quell the paroxysms of coughing.

Blake slipped into the broom closet across the hall a mere instant before the deputy returned. His heart was pounding so hard he was surprised its rhythm didn't echo in the small space.

The door to the interview room was ajar and, hearing that the elderly gentleman was still coughing, the deputy rushed in without thinking. His lanky frame bent to allow him to peer sincerely at Malcolm Jamison's florid face.

"It's okay sir. Help is on the way. Just try to relax and breathe." The young man's voice quavered with obvious concern.

It was then that he noticed Blake was not in the room. He turned toward the door just as it slammed shut. The color drained from his face as he heard the key turn in the lock. Blake's face was framed in the wire mesh safety window. The deputy could see him mouth the word 'sorry' as he turned away and ran down the hall toward freedom.
CHAPTER 6

Callie felt that the demo had gone well. Everyone had loved the coffee and they seemed particularly pleased that she would be willing to have someone onsite for a while to make sure the Inn's staff learned to correctly brew and serve it in a French press. She put the garment bag with her suit into the back of her wagon, making sure that it was not going to be crushed. She appreciated the manager letting her park in this niche the Inn had graveled so that delivery trucks could pull over and offload without blocking the alley. _Just a final check to make sure I haven't forgotten anything._ she thought as she turned to go back inside.

So as to not attract attention, Blake exited the Sheriff's office at a slow, meandering pace. He made his way to the corner and then down an alley that ran behind the Morriston Inn just as Callie mounted the steps leading to the back door.

The problem was that he was well known in this town. He had to get out of it as soon as possible and without arousing any notice. But how? His car was 8 miles away at the family retreat. He couldn't take Jamison's car even if he had the keys. It wouldn't do to take advantage of the old boy's choking on spit and then leave him stranded for hours in Morriston. As much as he hated to do it, 'borrowing' a car seemed the only way to escape so that he could begin working on how to clear his name.

Blake spotted the dark green, all wheel drive wagon sitting behind the Inn. It was tucked into a little alcove made by the back of the next building which protruded a little further into the alley than did the Inn and the large dumpster behind the Inn itself. The green wagon sat all alone, out of sight from the roadway and far enough forward that it could not be easily seen from the Inn's back door. As he walked by the driver's side he noticed that the keys were hanging in the ignition.

Blake smiled broadly. _Perfect! With any luck, the owner is inside at the bar and will be there for a while. Maybe if I'm real lucky, they will think that some kid took the car for a joy ride._

Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he opened the car door and eased behind the wheel. Well, he really more squeezed than eased. The driver's seat was most of the way forward and his six foot four inch frame was very tightly wedged into the seat. The steering wheel was causing a painful crease in his right knee. As he found the adjusting lever for the seat and slid it all the way back he turned the key. The car started without a pause.

_Well maintained buggy._ he commented to himself.

Just as Blake closed the car door and was about to shift into gear, he heard a very angry female voice shout, "Hey buster! Just where do you think you're going?"

He turned his head as the passenger side door flew open. An auburn haired wildcat in a starched blouse and blue jeans was staring at him through the greenest eyes he had ever seen. "Sorry lady, I need this car. It's an emergency." It sounded lame even to him, but maybe she would buy it.

"Yeah?" the irate woman replied. She was athletically built and had a no nonsense sound to her voice. Her feet were widely spaced and her hands gripped the window frame and door post. Her posture reflected her determination. "Well, I need this car too. Now, get out and just walk away and I'll work real hard to forget that you tried to steal it." Blake could see that she was not buying the emergency story.

Callie couldn't believe this was happening to her on top of the fight with Will.

Even more unbelievable was the shiver of electricity that rushed through her as he stared back at her with resolute, piercing blue eyes.

Suddenly she plopped into the passenger's seat. The impulse surprised her as much as it did Blake.

He noticed how her well shaped breasts caused the fabric of her shirt to strain, deliciously, alluringly. He was aware of a sudden, overwhelming, almost magnetic attraction to her. "Really lady, you are going to be a whole lot happier if you just let me take the car and get out of here."

Callie had fixed him with a determined, defiant stare through narrowed eyes. He couldn't help but be amazed at how green they were. They reminded him of perfect emeralds.

It was obvious to Blake that she felt no such attraction. Her voice was low, sexily low and very firm. "Get out..... NOW!" The 'now' was almost a separate sentence.

Blake could see that this was going nowhere fast and every second spent arguing with this fascinating mad woman made it more likely that he would be noticed and caught. His pulse ratcheted up and his vision narrowed.

Callie studied the landscape of his face as his gaze darted from mirror to window to mirror.

"I don't have time to argue with you." He sighed and rolled his eyes as he slipped the car into gear and began to move forward. "I really need to get out of here. It's literally a matter of life and death."

Boy! That's as lame as 'it's an emergency.

Callie slammed the door with finality. She hooked her seatbelt and covered the release button with a white knuckled fist. She made it clear that she would not abandon the car to him without a real fight.

The rational part of her knew she should be climbing out of the front seat as quickly as possible but she just couldn't let him take her car. Men had pushed her around enough lately and she wasn't going to take any more. Callie's mouth was so dry that her speech even crackled. "I'm serious buster, this is my car and it doesn't go anywhere without me!"

Blake's brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed with irritation. "Suit yourself but don't say I didn't warn you. You really don't want to be with me right now."

He eased the car out of the alley and onto the street. He was driving very carefully but definitely working his way out of town via the outskirts.

"I don't know who the hell you are or what the hell you think you're doing! And I certainly don't want to be with you now or anytime but, I won't let myself be victimized by the likes of you, especially with what I've been through in the last month."

Although her tone made it clear that she was just as determined as he was, her stomach clenched with anxiety.

The silence was almost deafening. Blake took every back road, county highway, and obscure route that he could remember. He had to avoid the major highways because it was there that the police would begin their search for him.

Callie admired the skill with which Blake drove the little wagon. He didn't seem worried about little details like speed limits. He pushed the car to the limits but always maintained control. She wondered if he was a professional race driver or merely an experienced car thief. The ride was exhilarating and, despite the frisson of fear it caused at times in her, Callie never felt she was in danger from the driving.

Finally, she broke their implicit truce. "Can you at least tell me why you took my car and kidnapped me?"

Blake glanced over at her. It was weird but he was enchanted by this strong willed woman. He knew it was ridiculous but he found himself truly smitten with her. He marveled at her golden auburn hair glinting in the afternoon sun. Her subtle makeup accented just how pretty she was in an understated way. He knew having her with him only compounded his trouble. In other circumstances, at another time he suspected the he would enjoy the challenge she presented.

"I didn't kidnap you. I only borrowed your car." His eyes re-focused on the roadway, taking in each detail as they rocketed down a relatively straight stretch of pavement. His voice echoed the determination in his eyes. "You really don't know who I am?"

"Let me guess, Jesse James? Clyde Barrow? No, wait, that can't be right because Bonnie's missing." Callie was thickly laying on the sarcasm. "No, I don't know who you are or why you _borrowed_ my car. I thought you were stealing it."

"I'm Blake Farmington."

"Right, and I'm a famous movie star. Tell me another one. Why would Blake Farmington need to steal my used wagon when he probably drives a Rolls?"

"Actually, I drive a midsized import that gets great gas mileage, but that's because I'm environmentally conscious. And besides, you don't drive your own Rolls. It's tacky. You have a chauffeur drive the Rolls. Otherwise, what's the point of having one?" He enjoyed trading sarcasm for sarcasm.

Callie, looked at him appraisingly. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way. Dark hair a little on the long side. A day or two of stubble on his chin. Broad, strong shoulders showed beneath the plaid shirt and his jeans fit like they were painted on.

_Oh, this is ridiculous!_ _This yahoo has kidnapped you and stolen your car and you're checking him out._ She struggled to suppress the strong, animal attraction she felt toward him.

"I just wish you were Blake Farmington. There are a couple of things I would love to say to him." She said, sighing and folding her arms.

"Like what?"

"Okay, I'll play along. I'd like to tell him what jerks I think he and his company are. They push little people like me around and we are just supposed to take it."

"How did you get pushed around?" His voice took on a quieter tone.

"Oh, I'm sure that he wouldn't even know about it but I had a nice little coffee business going inside a grocery store in my home town. Then, along comes Farmington's Fabulous Pastry Café and pushes me out the door. I had been saving to go to school and, because of them, I can't. Every penny I saved and what was left of my inheritance went into starting another coffee business." She was staring at the wooded landscape outside the passenger's window.

Blake clearly remembered when the board had proposed going into the café business. He had opposed it but they saw it as a good way to increase exposure and sales.

"That is a cruddy thing to do." There was an edge of indignation when he spoke.

"You bet it is. But I'm going to get even."

"Oh, how's that?" Blake asked with interest.

"Simple, their coffee sucks and their customer service is even worse. So I'm getting, well, was getting their pastry line in my shop and I was going to blow them out of the water with superior coffee and service."

Callie looked at him again. _Definitely a looker. And that voice! It rumbled through her like quiet thunder. Too bad he's a creep._ She wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

"You started to say that you were getting Farmington Pastries and then said you weren't getting them. What happened?" Blake 's interest was genuine.

She sat up straighter in the seat. "Hey!" she pointed at the sign ahead. "A picnic area with facilities. How's about a pit stop?" she asked.

"Oh sure. And then you can run off and turn me in. I don't think so!" he laughed.

"Okay, it's your call but if you have to bail out the car, it's not because I didn't warn you. I was heading back into the ladies when I saw you stealing my car." Callie said.

"I told you, I didn't steal it, I just needed a way to get out of Morriston, quickly and quietly. After a pause he asked, "You really have to go?"

"Like a race horse." She winced slightly, which convinced him she was being honest.

Blake looked in the rear view mirror. There were no cars behind them. He knew this area and there were rarely any picnickers at this stop. Nothing to see or do except eat and pee. He decided to take a chance.

"Okay, but no funny business. If you run off, the most likely thing you'll find is a bear. They're down out of the hills at this time of year and foraging for food for their young. It's bad enough that I took your car and my family apparently ruined your business. I don't want to be responsible for you getting mauled too."

Callie stared at him. He sounded rational and genuine but he persisted with this delusion that he was Blake Farmington. _Whatever_. she thought. At least a pit stop would let her be more comfortable. Besides, although a delusional nut, he was calm and polite. He even sounded genuinely concerned for her comfort and safety.

"Okay, I promise, no funny business." Callie held up her right hand. "I'm really not the Grizzly Jane kind of girl anyway. I didn't even do that well in the scouts!"

Blake wheeled the wagon into the picnic area. There were no other cars around and he was fairly certain that they would not be disturbed for as long as she needed in the ladies' room.

He removed the keys from the ignition. "Wait there. I'll come around and get your door."

"OOOH! Quite the gentleman, aren't we?" Despite her gratitude for his stopping, she couldn't resist being sarcastic.

"No, it's just that I've learned to be cautious with women. In my experience, most of them promise one thing and do quite another." Blake's smile was slightly caustic.

He came around and opened her door. "M'lady."

He made a mock bow and extended his hand to her. Callie took it reflexively.

He thrilled to the warmth of her hand in his. _Too bad I couldn't have met you under better circumstances._ he thought. _You're just about perfect. Golden red hair that smells of sunshine and full, very kissable lips. And, you know how to stick up for yourself."_

"Thank you." As she spoke she noticed he was staring at her with a very faint sweet smile on his face. "I assume you'll want to see me safely to the privy?"

"Of course, what kind of rogue would I be if I exposed you to ravaging rabbits and mad chipmunks? They're everywhere you know?" His free hand shaded his eyes as he exaggeratedly peered around them for any predatory rodents.

She smiled at the joke in spite of her desire to be rid of him. Callie had read about how many criminals lulled their victims into a false sense of security. Although this fake Blake Farmington didn't seem dangerous, she was not willing to let her guard down. At the first opportunity, she would run for help.

The facilities turned out to be two portable commodes side by each. She entered the green plastic box and shut the door. _No chance of slipping away, bears or no bears_. she realized.

She finished washing her hands in the cold water sink and wiped them on her jeans since the towel dispenser was predictably empty. As they were walking back to the car, his hand gently but firmly on her elbow, a car pulled into the picnic parking area. Her heart jumped in her chest. _Maybe a chance to get away_. she thought as she tried to slow her breathing.

"Don't even think about it." her captor muttered through a smile. "And don't say anything."

The occupants of the new car were an elderly couple. The woman had the same look of urgency on her face that he had had just had seen on Callie's minutes before.

As she hurried toward them the woman asked Callie, "Is it too dreadful?" She nodded toward the portable toilet.

Blake jogged her elbow.

"No, not at all." she replied.

Blake slipped his hand down her arm and firmly locked her fingers into his.

"Not like I have a choice but, thank goodness." The older woman said as she rushed past.

When they got to Callie's wagon, the man driving the newly arrived car smiled. To him, they were a young couple, nervously holding hands.

"First long date or newlyweds?" He knowingly smiled at Blake.

"Newlyweds!" Blake answered a bit too quickly. Then, to add credence, he turned to Callie, took her in is hard, muscular arms and kissed her, long and passionately.

The kiss that was meant to convince the old man of their recent marriage surprised them both. As he took her lips with his own, Blake was astonished that Callie opened them for him, just slightly. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into her moist, succulent mouth. Callie heard a soft moan and was shocked to realize that it had escaped from her throat. Blake groaned as his tongue explored her willing mouth, then, remembering that they had an audience, he reluctantly dragged himself back from the precipice.

"That's it son!" chuckled the older man. "Don't be shy and don't ever stop kissing her just like that. That's how Sylvia and I made it to thirty-five years together."

Callie was so stunned that she sank into the passenger's seat without a word. She had been kissed before but never, never like that. Certainly, she had never responded to a kiss like that before. Her pulse was racing, she felt flushed, and her nipples were definitely erect.

Blake closed the door for her and walked to the drive's side. He waved at the other man. "Thanks for the advice, I'll be sure to follow it!"

Blake waved again out the window as they drove out onto the road. Callie noticed that he looked a little flushed himself. He kept nervously glancing at her and then in the rear view mirror. He seemed to relax when the other car left the picnic area and turned so it wasn't following them.

Blake was lost in silent contemplation remembering how stimulating it had been to kiss Callie. Her warmth, his surprise when she parted her lips for him. The mere thought of that passionate kiss started a heated, tingling quiver of arousal in him. There was something exciting about this woman and he hated the thought of not being able to experience more of her beguiling sensuality and staunch determination. But he had to drop her off somewhere safe before he could make his way to the cabin and begin working out how to clear himself of suspicion in Trish's murder.

Callie was staring at him when he next looked toward her. Her expression was indiscernible. It hovered somewhere between confusion and the look people get when staring at a bug. _Not a bug, a worm._ he thought bitterly. Blake had intended to apologize for taking such a liberty when he kissed her but, as their eyes met, he decided it was better to ignore it. Anything he might say about that wonderfully exciting kiss might push her into anger. He knew that he would not be able to get her out of his mind and he didn't want the memory of her clouded by an angry outburst. Instead, he returned to his earlier question.

"You started to tell me why you were _going_ to handle our pastries but aren't going to now." His tone was gentle, probing. "Okay, I'll play along." Callie nodded her head and looked away. He could see that she was sorting through the details in her memory.

"I was about to finish up all the paperwork for getting _your_ pastries but the woman I was working with got murdered. That was grim enough, but then, I had a big fight with my over-controlling ex-boyfriend, and now you've kidnapped me. Heaven alone knows what else is going to happen to ruin my life." Anger and apprehension were clear in her voice. She sounded on the verge of tears. This was a woman whose limits were severely tested and whose nerves were about frayed through.

Blake swerved to the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. He put the car into park and gripped the wheel with both hands. His knuckles turned white he was squeezing the wheel so hard. He turned to Callie with a shocked look on his face. His fierce blue eyes bored into her, demanding the truth."You – YOU found Trish's body?"

His reaction was so fierce that the color drained from Callie's face. _Just what the hell is going on here? And how does he know her name?_ she wondered.
CHAPTER 7

Business was always slow in the late afternoon. All the clean up and stocking chores had already been done so Barry was sitting on the stool near the sink reading a magazine article. He wasn't particularly interested in it but reading anything helped pass the time during the lull. He had always been a compulsive reader with broad interests. From history to atmospheric science to housekeeping tips, as long as it was in print, he would read it.

Barry wasn't startled when there was a knock at the back door. He expected that it was his friend Steve, a musician with the soul of a blues man and the desire to be a hard rocker. That contradiction made for some truly interesting sounds that lots of people were enjoying on the Internet. Steve had a growing fan base on the personal video sites. Lately he was getting questions about where people could buy downloads of his music. That's where Barry came in. He was a keen amateur Web designer who also had a head for business. He was helping Steve put together an e-commerce site to sell his music.

He spoke as he opened the door. "Hey dude."

Barry stopped short when he realized that his visitor was not Steve but Will. He never thought of Will as Callie's boyfriend. Rather, he was the man who was dating her but shouldn't be. He had never been comfortable around Will.

"Mr. Sampson. What can I do for you?" He sensed the usual whiff of prejudice and condescension from the candidate.

"Hello Barry. I was wondering if you've heard from Callie." While Will's tone was outwardly friendly it definitely was not genuine.

_No question that he's a politician. Smiling to your face and looking for where to sink the knife in your back._ thought Barry.

"Well, she's not back yet." He preferred to keep his response brief when talking with Will. Not only did brevity shorten the conversations but it seemed to needle Sampson in a way that Barry found very satisfying.

"I know she's not back. I asked if you had _heard_ from her." Will snapped. He rose to Barry's bait like a trout to a fly. He had never liked Barry and he couldn't understand why Callie had hired him. Will thought that Barry had breezed into town and wormed his way into her business as slick as could be. Worse still, he held too much influence with Callie. Now she was considering making him a manager of her new café.

Will wondered what she could be thinking. Did she really think that people in Morriston would accept a mixed race 'kid' as a member of the business community? Sure, there were lots of tourists from Seattle, Portland, and even Canada but seriously.

"Oh, _heard_ from her. No." Barry accentuated the word just as Will had.

It was so easy to get his goat. He smiled innocently as he continued. "I'm not surprised though. She said she might stay on overnight. In fact, she hinted that it might be a couple of days. She seemed kinda upset."

Barry paused, letting the barbs sink in. He enjoyed needling Will. Then with mock concern he asked, "You two didn't have a little spat, did you?"

Will's temper flared immediately. He put his head down and counted to ten. He didn't like standing on the lower step and looking up at this cocky pup. "Not that it's any of your business, but no."His response was less than convincing.

_Man, you're going to need to learn to lie better than that if you want to be a congressman_. Barry thought.

"Well, that's good." His voice dripped with artificial sincerity.

"I only asked because she seemed a little upset when she left. But I guess it was just the jitters over having to do the demo at the Inn." His tone became even and carefully calculated to sound conversational.

"Well, if you haven't heard from her, do you know where she was planning to stay, if she doesn't come back tonight I mean?" Will was getting his emotions under better control. He didn't like this kid. He hated how easily Barry could get under his skin.

"Nope." Barry's reply was terse.

Barry waited long enough to satisfy his impish sense of fun before continuing. "She likes to try little out of the way places. B and Bs and such. Not that I have to tell you that." He winked knowingly at Will. Sarcasm hung in the air like a mist between the two men.

Will fumed silently. He wasn't sure how much more he could take of this kid's wise ass remarks but he had to get in touch with Callie. He had a large political fund raiser coming up and he wanted to make sure that things were patched up between them before then.

Things had not gone as he expected that morning. He thought that Callie, a woman with little prospect of climbing in either the business or social worlds, would leap at the chance to hook up with him. After all, they had been getting along really well since she moved to Bellington.

Will remembered one particular night very clearly. He had done everything right. Nice dinner, evening stroll by the waterfront. Drinks at a quiet, out of the way place he knew. Then back to his place. Soft music, soft lights, a few nice compliments and then he made his move. Callie had seemed unsure at the time but she yielded to him, just like others had. As he remembered it, he performed magnificently.

But Callie seemed distant afterwards. She hadn't said anything negative but she seemed in a hurry to leave, making some excuse about having to open the store the next morning. After that, whenever he tried to set the situation up again, she managed to outmaneuver him and avoid any further intimacy.

The chase made catching her all the more exciting to him. He liked to overcome people's defenses and bend them to his will. It made him feel powerful and virile. Until Callie finally succumbed to him, he had plenty of other eager, accommodating women to satisfy his physical needs. Women who were attracted to his power, his ruthlessness, his dominance.

The press had already been portraying him as a man of the people and the latest releases from his campaign staff were hinting at an important upcoming 'personal' development. When his engagement to a woman with no political ties was announced, it could only solidify his popularist image.

"Look, Barry, it's kind of important that I reach her. Seriously, you don't know how to get in touch with her?" Will poured on the charm.

Barry started being a little concerned. "Are you telling me she isn't answering her cell?"

Will could see the alarm on Barry's face. "No, she isn't. I wasn't exactly accurate when I said that we hadn't had a 'spat' as you put it." He was certain that Callie had not told Barry about his proposal but she had to be really angry to ignore his calls.

"It wasn't a spat; it's just that we have slightly different ideas about how to do something." He hoped that he wasn't giving anything away and that Barry would not press the issue.

"She was supposed to get back to me and she hasn't. When she didn't answer my calls, I got a little worried that maybe her battery had died or something. I called the Inn and she left there a while ago. No one is too sure when because they were busy getting set up for the dinner crowd." Will was staying as close to the truth as he could without opening the door to pointed questions.

Barry took out his phone and scrolled to Callie's number. He pushed 'TALK' and waited. The phone rang once and then went immediately to voice mail. "Hey boss lady!" he said. "Just touching base to see how things went at the Inn. ' Guess you are staying over. Give me a call if you are going to open tomorrow, otherwise I'll just plan on doing it."

Barry shrugged at Will as he shut off the phone. "Guess she doesn't want to be disturbed by anyone right now. Or maybe she's just taking a drive in the hills. There are lots of dead spots up there."

"Yeah." Will's reply reflected the fact that he hadn't considered the gaps in cell phone coverage in the mountains.

At least he felt better that Callie had not answered for Barry either. He needed to get in touch with her and smooth things over. Having her in his political corner was good for at least a fifteen point boost in the poll ratings. Of course, it would have to be timed right. But that could be arranged. On the other hand, having her break off the relationship could be a disaster no matter when it occurred.

He knew she wasn't seeing anyone else. Everyone knew that Will and she had an arrangement and no one was willing to try and interfere with that. Will had seen to it that everyone _knew_ Callie was 'his'. And if she was a little slow in coming to the realization, he could always put on a little 'charm offensive' to close the deal.

"Well, if you hear from her, let me know, would you?" How he hated asking favors of anyone and especially people who didn't matter like Barry.

"Sure, I'll ask her to call you."

"No, don't do that. Just let me know." Will's response was just a little too hastily.

"Man, that must be some difference of opinion." Barry spoke before thinking. He could see that Will was less than pleased that he might learn something about the disagreement.

"Just let me know if you hear from her, understand?" There was an undertone of menace in his voice.

Barry nodded. "Sure. I'll let you know."

What he didn't say was, _But I'm not saying how soon I'll let you know._

Will managed to choke out a brief appropriate response. "Thanks, thanks for your help."

As he turned to leave his phone rang. Without looking he answered. "Sampson."

Barry noticed the subtle change that came over Will Sampson's posture as the other party spoke. Will's shoulders tensed for just a split second and his head jerked with something very much like alarm or fear. Barry watched Will struggle to reassert an air of composure.

"Ah, Mr. Hong! How nice to hear from you again." Will hastened his pace to get out of earshot.
CHAPTER 8

Callie slowly took deep breaths and composed herself. She had to think. In swerving to the shoulder and slamming on the brakes, this seemingly harmless, very sexy, delusional man had unexpectedly become terrifying.

"How do you know Trish?" Her voice was tentative. She noticed his grip on the wheel relax slightly and his shoulders slump, almost in resignation. It was only then that she remembered to breathe.

"Trish Martins is..... was....... my personal assistant." he replied softly.

His grief was evident despite his display of rage the moment before. "What's more, someone has framed me for her murder."

He slowly and softly banged his forehead against his knuckles.

"Your assistant." Callie paused thoughtfully. "My God, you were telling the truth, weren't you? You _are_ Blake Farmington." Confusion compounded her anxiety.

The last Will had told her, there were no suspects in the case. Now here she was in the middle of nowhere, alone with the man who was accused of killing Trish. A cold chill of fear ran through her. She shuddered as the memory of Trish Martins' lifeless body forced its way to the forefront of her mind. Callie saw her, drained of her life's blood, cold and pale. Now she might end up the same way. Her cold, shaking hand reached for the door handle in panic.

Blake's arm shot across the car and gripped her upper arm so firmly that she winced and sucked in air in pain. At that, he relaxed his grip slightly.

"Don't." There was no question that it was a serious command. His eyes blazed fiercely. They spoke volumes about how foolish it would be to go against his will. Callie slowly removed her hand from the door lever.

"Okay. What now?" There was a frightened waver in her soft voice.

Blake sighed heavily and relaxed his grip. "I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. Taking your car, scaring you, everything." He sounded sincere.

"I'm not going to hurt you. And I _didn't_ kill Trish! I have no idea why anyone would want to kill her."

Callie took a deep breath and then another, trying to bring her pounding pulse under control.

Suddenly his voice was heavy with exhaustion. "All I know is, I was at our family retreat outside Morriston when three cop cars pulled up. I went to the door and opened it wondering what all the commotion was about. I ended up with a shotgun pointed at my head and everyone yelling at me to get down on the ground."

"That gun barrel looked like a sewer pipe to me. Believe me; I went down on the ground, and fast. The next thing I knew, someone was telling me I was suspected of murder. I thought it was some kind of joke until they put the handcuffs on me." He shook his head in disbelief.

Callie watched his face closely. He seemed to believe what he was saying. Her breathing and pulse had almost retuned to normal. She asked when he found out that Trish was dead.

"After they put me in the cell. I was really confused and in shock. I finally thought to ask who I was supposed to have murdered. That's when they told me. They said that they found her at her desk, which makes no sense." Blake eased back in the seat, his head firm against the headrest. His eyes closed and his voice took on a softer tone as if he were relating a dream.

"Hell, I thought she was at home practicing for the Cast Iron MasterChef competition. I can't figure out why she was at the office. She knew I was going to be at the retreat. I wanted some time away after that last round of negotiations in Shanghai. I just needed some time with no phone, no news, and no hassles. Since I wasn't going to be in we'd agreed that she should take the week off to get in some extra practice."

Callie carefully studied Blake. Every fiber of him exuded sincerity. She decided that there was no risk in telling him. "I can answer that. She sent me a text from her cell phone asking me to meet her there at five-thirty. She said it was important but she didn't say what it was about. I thought it was about my handling your pastries."

Blake looked quizzically at Callie. "You're handling our pastries? What was she doing even talking to you about that? She knew damned well that this Asian expansion is integral to expanding the company's international footing. I've worked too long and hard to have her or anyone working for me screwing around with domestic franchises."

"There are some fools who believe going international is a mistake. It's not and I proved that with the expansion into Canada. Three years ago we were only in western British Columbia. Today we are nationwide there."

Blake's tone turned cold and venomous. "If they distracted her from the Asian project for spite, I'll have someone's head."

Callie recognized that his anger was not directed toward her. She was very thankful for that. She was certain that anyone who crossed Blake Farmington would live to regret that action many times over.

"I don't know about any of that. All I know is that I turned in my paperwork about two months ago. Then, three weeks later I got a call from a woman calling herself Patricia Martins saying that she would be handling my account. I never questioned it."

Blake shook his head again. "This keeps getting stranger and more confusing."

He looked at Callie with intent, pleading eyes. "I have no right to ask this. I was going to drop you off and head up to my cabin but, I really need to know everything you can tell me about your conversations with Trish; about finding her; and about what you told the cops. I have to figure out who did this to her and why they're framing me for her murder. Will you help?"

Callie studied him. She could see the desperation in his face, hear it in his voice. She also remembered what Will had told her. 'Cops don't make arrests without really good reasons.' Here was a man who was accused of murder asking her to help him learn what the police knew and some of what they didn't know.

Her reply was laced with hesitation. "I ...... I don't know Blake. I mean, what if you're not being honest with me? And even if you are, I'm already too deep in this mess. I don't need to get in any deeper."

She tried not to think about that kiss. That searing, sensual kiss that had caused long dormant passions to reawaken. Callie could not forget the way her body had responded. She could not stop looking into the deep sapphire blue pools that were his eyes. She wondered what it would be like to see love and desire in them.

"I'm not saying no. I just need to think." Her voice trailed off.

"Fair enough. I respect people who weigh their options before committing to a major course of action."

Blake turned off the car's engine. He took the keys out of the ignition and put them in the front pocket of his jeans farthest from Callie.

He eased back in the seat. His attempt at a relaxed posture failed. He remained alert and watchful. "Let me know when you decide."

She couldn't explain why but Callie suddenly found herself wanting, desperately wanting, to believe Blake's story. He sounded genuine enough. And, he had tried to dissuade her from getting into the car to begin with. Nothing about his behavior had been cruel. And then, there was that kiss; that marvelous, hot kiss. A man who kissed like that couldn't possibly be a dispassionate killer. Before she realized she was doing it she heard her voice.

A tiny, far away voice was speaking, distracting her from the memory of his powerful arms and manly aroma. "Okay, I'm pretty sure I'll help."

The here and now came sharply into focus as Blake turned in his seat. He carefully studied her face, peering deeply into her eyes as if searching for any hint of doubt within them. "Pretty sure? But not really sure?"

She met his gaze with a level stare. She too searched his eyes for some hint of duplicity. All she saw was sincere hope. She nodded. "Yes. Pretty sure. I mean, you stole my car and you've forced me to kiss you back there at the rest area. I'm allowed to have some doubts."

She prayed that she had made the right decision.

Without a word, Blake started the car, put it into gear and began to pull back onto the roadway. He kept his eyes on the road. He spoke in a soft voice that was just above a whisper. "I'm not too sure who kissed who back there."

Instead of continuing in the same direction, he made a u-turn and went back in the direction from which they had just come.

Callie, startled, looked over her shoulder and then back at Blake. Her nervous dry mouth had returned hand in hand with a terrible, fearful doubt about her decision. She tried licking her lips to moisten them. "Just where are we going?"

"To the cabin."

"So, if that's where we are going now, where were we going before this?" Her concern and confusion escalated.

"Ah. Well. How do I put this?" A hint of color rose in his cheeks.

Callie squirmed uncomfortably as her stomach knotted. Had she made the wrong decision? Was he going to harm her in spite of what he just said?

Blake noticed her uneasiness.

"Oh God! I've done it again!" His voice conveyed the depth of his regret.

"I'm sorry.......Hey, I don't even know your name. I can't hope to win your trust if I keep calling you 'lady', can I?" He smiled reassuringly. Despite its warmth, Callie couldn't help remembering the Lady from Liger and the smile on the tiger.

"Callie." she replied, not wanting to upset him further. "Callie Adams."

"Callie." He repeated her name as if savoring a fine wine. He tried to reassure her by sounding as conversational and relaxed as he could. "I assume that is short for something else."

"Yes, it's short for Calista. It means beautiful, although I don't know what my folks were thinking when they gave me that name."

Blake turned to her, a warm, genuine smile played across his face. She noticed that when it reached his eyes they sparkled with apparent delight. "Oh, I think it fits you perfectly."

Callie blushed as her eyes dropped. She still wanted to know the answer to her question. "Where were we going before?"

Blake cleared his throat. "Well, I know of this nice little out of the way town where they rarely see a sheriff's car. I also happen to know that the only public phone is busted. It's safe but remote. I figured to drop you off there and hightail it to the cabin, which is in the opposite direction."

He grinned sheepishly. "Kinda two birds with one stone. I make sure you are safe, slow down the chase for me, and – okay three birds with one stone – since I escaped from jail in Morriston, I give the cops the wrong idea of where I'm off to. I figured it would look more like I was heading for either eastern Oregon or maybe Nevada. The family has property in both places."

"But, won't the cops look for you at your family cabin?"

"I'm sure they'll check the family retreat again since that's where they found me the first time but, we're not going to the family retreat. We're going to my cabin on the other side of the Cascades. Not even the family knows I've been working on it. It's supposed to be a surprise for some friends."

Callie shifted uneasily in her seat. "The other side of the Cascades?"

He was taking her further away from people to whom she might turn for help if she needed it. She wanted to believe that Blake had nothing to do with Trish's death but right now he seemed so distant and secretive.

"Yeah, it's not any place the cops would think to look for me and we can have the privacy and time to talk so I can figure out what to do next."

"Blake, what happens to me if I change my mind and decide that I don't want to help you?" She ventured tenuously.

"Well, I can't pretend I'll be happy about that. I really need to know what you know if I'm going to figure out who framed me. What you know may be vital to unraveling this mess." He let the words hang in the air. He made no threats but she felt a sense of warning in what he said.

Anxiety surged through her again. Callie knew that she had to calm down if she was going to get out of this mess. She reminded herself that Blake originally said that he never intended to harm her. He had sounded sincere when he said it.

Sure, he was going to strand her in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of yokels. But, that was before he had a reason to think she knew something important, something he desperately wanted to know. How would that knowledge change things?
CHAPTER 9

Will walked away from the coffee stand and Barry as quickly as he could. He struggled to maintain his composure but the muscles of his upper back and shoulders were knotting up with stress. _What did Hong want now?_ he wondered.

Hong Sheng was a mistake from the past. A mistake that never seemed to go away. Will had first met him when he was in his late teens. Hong seemed like a kind of eccentric man who ran an Asian food market and herbal medicine store. However Hong Sheng personified the old expression 'you can't judge a book by its cover.'

"Mister Will" The voice was a high, nasal whine. "I have been informed that you are running for Congress." Will tensed even more.

"Yes I am Mr. Hong." Will's patience had already been pushed to the limit by that snot nosed kid Barry, and he had to work to maintain a neutral tone of voice. Hong would get around to what he wanted. A cold shudder of anxiety ran through Will.

"A noble aspiration Mr. Will. For a man who has served his family so honorably, it is fitting that he now serve his country." Will could imagine the snake like expression on Hong's face. He seemed to have a perpetual slight smile yet he was as deadly as a cobra.

"Thank you Mr. Hong." Will was waiting for Hong to tell him the purpose of this call.

"How fortunate that I am, shall we say, an old friend of such a man. It permits me to contribute to the 'greater good' in my own humble way." Hong was still hedging but Will could feel the real reason for this call coming. "Perhaps, as in the past, financial support might be welcome. Such a worthy undertaking must require substantial backing."

Will sensed that this was still not the reason behind the call. "Yes, it does require substantial backing. However, with the modern election laws, generosity from _friends_ is as limited, as it is from strangers." Will hoped that his emphasis on the word 'friends' did not betray the sarcasm he felt was behind it.

"Just so. How inconvenient that an honest businessman and an honest politician cannot come to a gentlemanly agreement without others attempting to limit their good will. However, I should welcome the opportunity to again help set you on the path as I did many years ago." Hong matched sarcasm with sarcasm.

Will shuddered. Over the years, he had repeatedly tried to disassociate himself from Hong Sheng and yet here he was again, having to deal with the gangster. Why couldn't the past just go away? Especially now that he had a chance to latch onto real power and influence.

"Perhaps I may be permitted to make an acceptable contribution to your campaign fund so long as I conform to the realities of modern politics?" Hong's question was as loaded as it was unctuous.

"That would be most generous Mr. Hong. I am sure that my campaign manager would be happy to have you contribute whatever amount you wish, within the limit, of course." Will couldn't imagine that this was the purpose behind Hong's call.

"Yes Mr. Will, I believe that your effort is destined for success. Consider how fortunately your problems seem to melt away."

Will waited apprehensively through the pause. _This is it_.

"Yes, a fortunate endeavor to be sure. Consider how conveniently your past has remained buried. So sad that it had to be preserved in such a way." Hong paused again for effect. "And what good luck that an enemy is made play the instrument of your deliverance."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean Mr. Hong." Will was beginning to sweat with anxiety. What was Hong suggesting?

"Oh come now Mr. Will. Surely we have secrets but not from each other. I refer to the fortuitous demise of the woman who sought to blackmail you, of course." Hong's voice oozed knowingly.

"She could have been most inconvenient, is that not so? And yet, your enemy is now accused of dispatching her. What is that if not good fortune? Such an elegant and economical solution."

Will could feel the throb of his pulse in his neck. How did Hong know about the blackmail? He knew he must tread softly here. If Hong was fishing for information, he wanted to make sure he didn't find any. On the other hand, if he really did know about the blackmail, it would be to Will's advantage to learn how he knew.

"Are you referring to the unfortunate death of that young woman at the hands of Blake Farmington?"

"How polite of you to refer to her death as unfortunate. Of course, whatever Mr. Farmington's _'motives'_ for killing her, it seems that you are truly the beneficiary of his acts. As I understand it, the young woman could have damaged your chances of election; fatally." Hong replied. "Such little mistakes. So long ago. But the public can be very harsh, can they not?"

"Yes, the public can be misled quite easily. It is the challenge and danger of running for office." Will was stalling for time.

"Just so Mr. Will. And yet, they would not really be misled if your indiscretions were revealed. Would they?"

"You know as well as I do that you ensnared me. You took advantage of my youth, my ignorance of the law, and the desperate situation of my family and used them to your advantage Mr. Hong." Will's voice was rising with his indignation. He looked around to make certain that no passerby was close enough to overhear this conversation.

"Oh, perhaps at first I did those things. Or perhaps not. But you have not refrained from, shall we say, making up financial shortfalls since then, have you Mr. Will? No, I think that we must admit that we have both benefited handsomely from your continued indiscretions." Hong's voice hardened for a moment.

Then he continued more mildly. "But, that is neither here nor there is it? Certainly, I could not reveal your secret without damaging myself nor could you involve me without implicating yorself. I merely congratulate you on your good fortune."

Will knew that there was more to this call. He had to determine what Hong truly wanted. "As you say, neither of us could harm the other without ruining ourselves. Given that, what is the real purpose of this call Mr. Hong?"

"Mr. Will! Such directness from a man who is usually so subtle! You are not yourself." Hong purred with mock concern.

"But you must worry that Trish Martins might not be the only person to discover your secrets. Perhaps we can cooperate to our mutual benefit. After all, we cannot have your secrets revealed when there is so much good you can do, for both of us. Is that not so Mr. Will?"
Chapter 10

The drive over the mountains was uneventful and mostly silent. Blake seemed to know every side road, logging trail, and goat track in the State. The day was warm and sunny, a change from the otherwise chilly summer that Western Washington was having this year. Callie would have enjoyed it much more if she weren't so anxious. She wondered whether she should tell Blake what she knew about Trish's murder. How he would respond to what she knew?

Callie looked again at this attractive, mysterious man who had stirred such strangely spontaneous passion in her. She had never had that kind of instantaneous, heated response to a kiss. It was completely out of character for her but even now she could feel a twinge in her nipples and her groin just thinking about it. But, he might also be the man who murdered Trish Martins. He might have seduced her too and then, if she had somehow threatened him, killed her. Could she take the risk of trusting him?

As she pondered these questions, Callie's mind meandered back to the photo from Trish's wallet that Detective Baines had uncovered. She was sure that the light haired girl was herself about age four. It had to be just before her parents died and she went to live with Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac.

But, if that was true, who was the dark haired girl? She looked to be about six. And why did Trish Martins have that picture?

Was that why she wanted to talk to her?

_This is silly._ she thought. _I don't even know if that is a picture of me._

All the pictures Aunt Jean had shown her were from after she went to live with them. Maybe it was someone that Trish was related to. That would make more sense. _And sense is something that I seem to lack right now._ thought Callie.

She turned to Blake. "Did Trish have any family?"

Blake had been lost in his own thoughts and the abruptness of Callie's question took him by surprise. He looked at her quizzically. "What?"

She repeated the question and waited for his answer.

"No, at least not that I'm aware of." He shrugged his broad shoulders. Callie was acutely aware of the fluid power in the simple gesture.

"Trish was really private. She never talked about her past. Once when we were working on a recipe for the MasterChef competition, she said something about having to live with an aunt who really didn't want her but then she caught herself and quickly changed the subject."

"So, you were at her house? Did she have any kids, a steady boyfriend, ex-husband, anything like that?"

Blake looked over at her and gave her an impish grin. "Are you asking if we were involved? Are you jealous?"

She felt annoyed at the ridiculous question. "Don't flatter yourself. No, I mostly wondered if she had any kids or maybe some nieces she doted on."

He was maddeningly effective at getting through her emotional defenses. Why did she respond so hotly to his provocations? She usually dismissed most men as boorish louts when they tried to needle her. Somehow Blake Farmington elicited a completely different response.

"No kids that I know of. In fact, I'm almost positive about that. She never seemed the motherly type. Too focused on herself and her secrets to have much left over for other people. She didn't seem the indulgent auntie either. What's the sudden interest in Trish and her family?"

"Well, I've read that most murders are committed by someone the victim knows, even someone related to them. I just thought that if she had family trouble, you know, a crazy husband or lover, or something like that we might be able to figure out who killed her."

"Ah, good thought. But I really don't know much about her life outside the office. Other than the Cast Iron MasterChef thing of course."

Blake glanced in Callie's direction and smiled. "Can I assume that because you said that _we_ might be able to figure out who killed her, that you're going to help me?"

Callie smiled back at him. " _We_ is a figure of speech at this point. I still have some doubts." She paused before continuing. "Let's just say that I haven't rejected the idea out of hand."

"So, Trish was planning to compete on Cast Iron MasterChef? Was she really that good? At cooking I mean." She blushed at the unintended innuendo.

Blake smiled mischievously again. "Yeah, she was that good. And with my help she was going to win too. She was a real contender as they say in the fight game."

"Oh, with _your_ help. Just how was that going to make her a winner?"

Blake told her about his idea to create a restaurant that featured the cuisine of the Old West. He spoke with such passion and intensity that she could imagine herself there. It was the same passion she had about her café.

_Another point in your favor Blake Farmington."_ she thought. _But I'm still not sure about you. Passion can drive someone to negative actions as well as positive ones._

"So, how did Trish Martins fit into this grand scheme of yours?"

"Well, I was coaching her. You know, teaching her some of the basics of that kind of cooking. I also developed some recipes for her that would 'wow' the judges without giving away any of what would be my signature dishes at the restaurant." Blake was more animated now.

Callie listened to his deep, rich, resonant voice. She found its tone very seductive as it thrummed along her nerves, enticing her. His gestures called attention to his hands, fine, strong hands. And, with surprise, she noted that they were no strangers to manual labor.

"That's all well and good but, it doesn't explain how she fitted into the restaurant idea. What, by winning was she supposed to stimulate interest in it or something? Like free publicity?"

"No, although that wouldn't have hurt. The win was supposed to give her a good start on a career that would be more satisfying than being a PA. Our agreement was that, for my help and a minor piece of the business, I'd get a damned fine chef who was trained by me to do things the right way."

Callie studied Blake's face as he told her about his plans for Trish. He seemed so open, so honest. Or maybe it was just that he wanted to believe the story himself. "So her dying kind of puts a monkey wrench in your plans?"

She also wondered, _What kind of partnership?_ The faint whiff of jealousy surprised her.

"Yeah, you could say that." Blake glanced at her. There was a look of what seemed like genuine concern on his face. "Either way, I am pretty much screwed on this project. My soon to be celebrity chef is dead and I'm accused of killing her, although I don't know what I am supposed to have gained by doing that."

He shook his head in disgust. "You see now why I am so desperate to find out what really happened? I mean, I owe it to Trish to find out who killed her but I also owe it to myself to find out who framed me and why." He struck the steering wheel in frustration.

Callie was shocked by the suddenness of the gesture and it showed on her face.

Blake saw her shock out of the corner of his eye. He recoiled at the thought of having frightened her yet again. He knew that he needed her help and cooperation; he also felt a profound attraction toward her.

Callie was unlike any of the other women he had known. She kept her cool in stressful situations, didn't seem to judge too quickly, Besides, he found her stunning.

"Ah damn it! I've done it again, haven't I? I am so sorry Callie." He emphasized the word so, drawing it out so that it sounded soulful and sincere.

"I'm really not violent. Usually, I take my frustration out on onions and firewood."

She stared at him in genuine confusion. "Excuse me. What? Onions and firewood?"

"Yeah, I was pretty frustrated as a teenager. I really didn't fit in with any crowd. On a whim I took a home-ec class and found out I had a talent for cooking. Chopping onions can be very therapeutic you know?" He smiled reassuringly.

"Then, when I got into an outdoor lifestyle, I found that firewood was another great stress release. You just imagine your problems as being the onion or log section and you go to work on 'em. Each slice of the knife or swing of the axe makes them smaller until they are so small you can handle them easily."

Callie sighed with relief. "That sounds a lot better than imagining them as people you don't like and chopping them up."

It was Blake's turn to be shocked. "That's a bit grizzly isn't it? God! It's bad enough when you have to kill something for food. But to even symbolically dismember someone." He made a decidedly disgusted sound. "Talk about making bad karma for yourself."

Callie smiled at him. "What do you expect from someone whose business is taking little green beans, roasting them until they are brown and then grinding them up? Now that's grizzly!"

He looked at her, again shocked. Then he began to laugh. "You have a sick sense of humor, you know that don't you?"

She chuckled self-consciously. "Yeah, it's always been hard for me. These little things just pop into my head and then I hear my Aunt Jean saying 'Calista Marie, that isn't something a young lady should say. _'_ Of course, I also saw her trying to hide a smile sometimes."

"Was your Aunt Jean your favorite aunt?"

"You could say that. She and my Uncle Mac raised me after my folks died." Her voice was quiet and thoughtful. "Now they're gone too so I'm pretty much on my own."

"I'm sorry." Blake said quietly. "Didn't have any way of knowing."

"No, it's okay. I just miss them. I used the money Aunt Jean left me to start the coffee business. She always said I had a good sense for people and that I'd do well in a business where I could interact with them."

"It must've been nice to have a family that showed you how much they cared." Blake too was more pensive. "If you don't mind, would you tell me more about them?"

Callie paused and studied Blake. Not only did he sound sincere but he looked it. "No, I don't mind. Let's see. I was about four when my parents died. They had been out in a sailboat on the lake. I guess it was late summer and they were just out for a day sail. Anyway, a freak thunderstorm came up and they were lost. Their bodies were never recovered. I was too young to realize what happened but I was sent off to live with Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac."

"Did they have any children?" Blake asked.

"No. Aunt Jean couldn't have any kids. They always wanted them but nature was against them."

"So, when you came to live with them it mustn't have been too much of a disappointment to them huh?"

"A shock maybe but a disappointment, no – I don't think so. If anything they probably spoiled me." Callie smiled at the memory. "Uncle Mac was a pilot in the Air Force. He got out after the Korean War and went to work for the airlines. He flew international routes so there were long stretches where Aunt Jean and I were alone. We always went to the airport on the days he came back. It was like Christmas all over again."

"How so?" Blake was glad to see Callie relaxing a bit in the seat.

"Well, Uncle Mac was the real softie in the family. He used to bring a present for each of us from every country he flew into. Once it was a dress for Aunt Jean and a beret for me from France. Another time it was tulip bulbs for her and wooden shoes for me from Holland. You know, just something to show he had missed us. I'm not sure they make guys like that anymore." She gave Blake a wry smile.

He shrugged his powerful shoulders again. "No siblings then?"

"Nope. I was their only." Callie paused, chewing on her lip. "I used to imagine that I had an older sister. It seemed so real that I asked Aunt Jean about it once. You know, I thought that if she was older, maybe she had died in the accident too. Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac never lied to me so I believed her when she told me that I didn't have an older sister who died when my parents did." She fell quiet again, still nervously worrying at her lower lip.

Blake noticed the abrupt end to the story. It seemed out of place, almost as if there was something else unspoken that Callie wanted to get out. He turned to look at her, noticing that she seemed to be deep in thought about something that troubled her.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked with genuine concern.

"Yeah." The response came very quickly. Then, more slowly she asked, "Blake, can I tell you something? And you won't repeat it; promise?"

"Sure, you can tell me anything."He made a wry face. "Besides, who am I going to tell? Right now, you are the only person I can talk to without going to jail."

"Well, I'm not sure that this couldn't get me into trouble so I don't want anyone to know about it until I'm certain that it's safe to mention it. Okay? So, something weird happened after I found Trish's body. It's been bugging me since then and maybe you can help me sort it out."

Blake sat quietly, hoping that whatever Callie was about to reveal might also help him figure out who was framing him for murder.

"The cops couldn't find any information on her cell phone so they had to go through her wallet. One of the things they found was a picture of two little girls at what looked like a birthday party. It was obviously a print from a scan – not an original."

"So that's why you were asking me about her having kids or nieces. But how's that weird? "

"It's weird because I think I'm one of the little girls."
CHAPTER 11

Will Sampson was not in a good mood. His campaign staff had seen him like this in the past. Not often; but when he was in the middle of a funk, no one, literally no one, approached him without first being asked to. His fits of pique didn't come out in gestures or outbursts. Instead, he gave off a specific vibe that everyone knew meant 'leave me alone'.

With only perfunctory greetings to staffers, volunteers, and others, Will waded through the campaign office. He more stalked than walked through the piled boxes of campaign brochures, handbills, and posters. With the grace of a hunting cat he made his way to the glass enclosed office that was his and his alone. The door closed with an unambiguous finality and the venetian blinds went down so quickly that anyone watching would have thought they were motorized.

Marsha, the volunteer acting as his secretary that day answered the intercom from Will's office. "Yes sir?" She had a pleasant, earnest voice.

"No calls unless it's Micah." There was a distinct pause before he added, "Or Ms. Adams". The tone and manner of his speech led Marsha to believe that 'Ms. Adams' might be the source of the upset.

"Certainly sir." Her answer was crisp. "Will there be anything else right now?"

Will cast a glance toward the coffee machine. The carafe was empty but the ready light was on. "No. Looks like the coffee is ready to brew. I just need some time to get a couple of things sorted out."

He hung up just a bit too slowly and Marsha heard him mutter, 'Shit' under his breath.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Will continued to mutter as he walked over to turn the coffee on. First Callie gives him the old 'I'll think about it' when he proposed to her then Hong called. The day was not shaping up to be a stellar one.

_Where could Callie have gotten off to?_ he wondered as he watched the dark liquid run into the carafe. He had even tried to locate her through that punk Barry who worked for her.

_Well, at least she didn't answer his call either._ That was some solace. At least she wasn't just playing hard to get or 'guess why I'm mad at you' games with him.

_Okay, maybe my timing was a little off. It would probably have been better to not ask her about formalizing their relationship while she was packing her car up to do a demo. But, damn it, I have things that I need to do too._ Will snatched the carafe out of the coffee machine as soon as the stream dwindled. The final drops of coffee hissed on the burner plate and gave off an unpleasant burnt aroma.

_She's a fool if she doesn't accept my proposal_. Will thought. _She has nothing. Comes from nothing. Has no prospects other than that stupid coffee stand_. Will came from nothing too but he had made something of himself. Surely Callie could see that. Now he was on his way to the Congress and maybe even the White House. _Thank heaven that blackmailing bitch Trish Martins is out of the way._ he thought.

He couldn't imagine how she had found out about his means of raising quick money. The first time he heard from her had been so innocuous. The phone rang and she sounded so uncertain, harmless even. But then, every successful criminal seemed to be, didn't they? He remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday.

"Mr. Sampson? Will Sampson?" she had asked in a slightly trembling voice. He was sure that she was not a telemarketer or someone asking for a donation. Those people work from a script and push hard and fast to keep you from hanging up on them.

"Yes. I'm Will Sampson. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Sampson, a mutual friend of ours gave me your number and suggested that you might be able to help me." Her nervousness was palpable. "Please sir, I really need help and I will do _anything_ , literally anything if you can help me."

"Well, Miss..... Miss....."

"Martinez, Patricia Martinez. But you can call me Pat." She had sounded so innocent and yet so alluring.

What a fool he had been to fall for that coquette act.

"Okay. Well Pat, why don't you tell me what is it that you need? Then we'll see if I can help you." He was warming to the idea of helping a damsel in distress who would do _'literally anything'_ for his help.

"I'm kinda embarrassed to ask this but I've been given to understand that you are some kind of super hunter. I'm trying out for this cooking show competition and I want to do something really exotic. You know, something to really make me stand out."

"Well, I hunt but it isn't season right now." Will's reply was cautious.

"Sure. I understand that but, I just thought maybe you might have something in the freezer that I could, ummmm, trade for?" Will was warming to the idea even more. He wondered if she was half as sexy looking as she sounded. Then caution kicked in. This could be a setup by a reporter or a political rival to discredit him.

"Look, Pat, Miss Martinez, I don't know much about you. You are asking a lot. I have a limited stock of game meat on hand and I probably won't have much chance to go hunting this year. Business you know." He wanted to avoid the innuendo around 'trading' on the phone. There was no way to know if this was being recorded.

"Please Will. Oh, I'm sorry. May I call you Will? I really need to get out of my dead end job and cooking is one of the few things I do really well." She infused her plea with heavy innuendo. He wondered what else she did 'really well'.

"What can I do to convince you?" She had sounded legitimate. Just some girl who wanted her fifteen minutes of fame. Will relented and agreed to meet her for coffee in the University District.

When they met, she looked every inch the eager amateur she posed as. She was eager, earnest, and seemingly unaware of her overt sex appeal. Will agreed to help her out.

"Okay Pat, I guess I can help you out. What kind of game are you looking for? I have venison, elk, some doves, and a goose still in the freezer." He could not stop sneaking peeks down her low cut blouse. He was glad that they were sitting at a table. Otherwise his degree of interest in her would have been all too obvious.

"I was hoping to do a venison roast with wild sage and juniper berry. Do you think I can get away with asking for a whole roast?" She shifted in her seat so as to afford him an even better view.

"Sure, I think I have a roast you can have. When do you need it?"

Well, I wanted to make it Friday." She purred. "Do you think it will be defrosted by then?"

"No way. You would have to start defrosting it today and I have meetings after this. I couldn't possibly get it to you before Thursday."

She seemed to rise to the bait.

"Well," Her voice was deep and throaty all of a sudden.

She lowered her head and looked up at him with sultry eyes. "Maybe you could defrost it and bring it over. That way you can taste my cooking and see if it's to your liking."

The invitation was clear enough to him. Suddenly she was no longer the innocent. He knew what she was offering in trade and it wasn't just dinner.

"Sure. I suppose I could do that." He relished the idea of having a tumble with this vixen. She would be good for a few laughs and then easily put aside.

"Great, I'll have the oven hot and ready. You just be sure to come hungry." Her body language left no question in Will's mind. This was a girl looking for a good time.

"Oh, I'll have a good appetite. I promise. It's been quite a while since I've had a hot, home cooked meal." He was hooked.

Friday had come and Will arrived at the apartment of the woman he knew as Pat Martinez. She met him at the door wearing an apron and holding kitchen mitts. After letting him in, they shared some wine and small talk while Pat prepared the roast. Will began to question whether he had misunderstood her intentions until she had the roast in the oven. She turned and took off the apron. The neckline of her blouse plunged to a knot at the waist. Her full, ample breasts were barely contained beneath it.

Will succumbed and soon they were passionately intertwined with each other. Will relished her willingness to let him dominate her. She was a strange mixture; both tempting and submissive. Just the kind of woman he really enjoyed.

And she could cook. She had definitely mastered the difficulties of preparing venison. The dinner was surprisingly well done which made it a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

Will was busy for the next couple of days and it took him a few more to get around to calling Pat.

"I thought you might have been disappointed when you didn't call." She sounded pouty but alluring at the same time.

"No, I've just been really busy. Can you keep a secret?" He teased her, wanting to impress her enough to keep her interested for a while.

"Oh, I'm very good with secrets." She purred into the phone.

"Well, what would you say if I told you that I was going to run for elective office?"

"Oh Will!" She loaded those two little words with admiration. "That's wonderful! You are so good with people; I just know you'll win. How's about dinner to celebrate?"

"Sounds great!" More venison?"

"No, I thought perhaps bear stew. I hear it's very good for stamina and energy." She said in her husky, seductive voice.

"I don't have any bear in the freezer."

"Oh, I'm sure that a resourceful man like yourself could come up with some. Especially when you already know what the appetizer and dessert are."

Will's libido kicked into high gear when he remembered their first dinner together. He was becoming aroused at the memory of it. "I can probably work something out."

"Of course you can you big, virile man. Say, Friday again?" Heat came through the phone line and flowed directly to that most male part of him.

"Sure, sure, Friday should work fine." He was already salivating and it wasn't at the idea of bear stew.

Friday evening went as Will had planned. They had sex again and Pat was even more submissive than before. She seemed to relish being dominated, punished, used. She made him feel so dominant, so powerful. He could get used to having a 'friend' who responded so naturally to his needs.

The shock came when he met her for coffee a few days later. Pat was sitting opposite him and chatting airily. Her tone was offhanded as she suddenly changed the course of her chatter. "I just got some photos back from a recent business trip. Would you like to see them?"

It struck him as odd that someone would take photos on a business trip but he agreed. The color drained from his face when he looked at the first photo. It clearly showed him, Will Sampson, declared candidate for Congress handing over a package to Hong Sheng. The next one showed him receiving money from Hong's hand. The third picture was of Hong examining the contents of the package. The resolution was so clear that anyone who knew what they were looking at would recognize it as a fresh bear's gall bladder.

"Aren't you feeling well sweetie?" Pat's voice was thick with mock concern, venom dripping from each syllable.

"Where did you get these? _How_ did you get these?" He was too shocked to even pretend that they were fakes.

Pat laughed at him. "I told you I was very good with secrets. Don't you remember?"

She was toying with him. "Silly man, you thought I meant keeping them. I meant collecting them."

She let the full weight of her meaning sink in. "Actually, I can be very good at keeping secrets too. I just need to have the right 'incentive' shall we say?"

Will trembled with anger and dread, holding the photos up in clear view of anyone who might pass by. Suddenly, he realized his blunder and placed them into his jacket pocket.

"That's okay sweetie. You go ahead and keep those. It's the great thing about the digital age. No need for negatives, photo processing, none of that. And they are so easy to share!"

"What do you want?" Will's mind was still struggling to come to grips with the predicament he found himself in.

"I should have thought that was obvious. Money sweetie. Lots and lots of money. As long as I get money I can keep a secret forever."

Will suddenly realized that she had gone from submissive sex slave to dominatrix in one swift move.

"I...." Suddenly he was stammering. "I don't have a lot of money. Everything I have is sunk into the campaign."

He wondered how he could ever explain a Congressman trafficking in illegal animal parts. He had broken state, federal and international laws. Now that he was in the public eye, the press, especially the liberal press, would crucify him.

"Oh I know sweetie." He was growing very irritated at being called sweetie. "I checked your bank records. But, the good news is that a popular boy like you is going to get lots and lots of money from all kinds of rich people. And you are going to give lots and lots of it to me so that I remember to keep your little secret."

"That's campaign money. The FEC tracks that very closely anymore." He was beginning to feel light headed.

"Oh sweetie." She could see the effect that her false endearment had on him. It was like twisting a knife each time she said it with that insincere, honeyed voice. She relished the power and control she had.

"But, not all the money you're going to get is going to be reported. It never is." She smiled that same snakelike smile that Hong had.

"Some of it is going to come to you by surprise and you are going to be expected to show your gratitude after you get elected. Now, to make sure that you do get elected, you are going to give me some of that money."

He stared at her in disbelief. She had done a great deal of planning and research to get to this point, that much was obvious. He was trapped and had no way out.

"I'm not greedy sweetie." She thrilled as he winced. "Say, fifty percent? That still leaves lots for you to use to grease the palms you need to."

He paid, he paid regularly. He hated it but what else could he do?

But he wasn't paying anymore.

No sir, Trish Martins who had called herself Pat Martinez couldn't bleed him any longer. What's more, he knew that he was free of any threat that someone else would find her blackmail material and use it against him.

He had sources in the police department. Men who held his beliefs about how to deal with violent offenders, illegals, and others. They kept him informed and he knew for sure that her computer and cell phone were free of any incriminating data. The hard drive from the computer and the data chip from the phone were gone, lost forever.

No sir, dead or alive, Trish Martins was not going to stop him from getting into Congress. That was for sure.
CHAPTER 12

Blake did a double take. He had to keep his eyes on the road because it changed from lousy pavement to even worse gravel around the next bend. Still, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why would Trish have a picture of you? I mean, what could she want with it?"

"Like I said, that's the weird part." Callie chewed softly on her lower lip. Blake found the nervous gesture charming and vaguely erotic.

"Focus. Focus." He repeated the mantra to himself. Callie didn't seem to notice the under-his-breath self- talk.

He shifted from muttering to clear speech. "You said that you _think_ one of the girls is you. Aren't you sure?"

Callie shook her head. "No. Yes. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's me but I must have been very young. The earliest pictures Aunt Jean had of me were from about a year after I went to live with her and Uncle Mac. I guess that there were just too many things to deal with after my folks died to take any candid snaps."

She paused and gave a wry chuckle. "Aunt Jean told me that I was pretty shook up over my folks dying. Not that I understood what that meant at the time."

"I'd say that it still shakes you up." Blake touched a raw nerve with that simple statement.

_How does he do that_? she thought. _No other man has ever been able to see through me like he does_.

She took refuge in her best defense; sarcasm. "Naw, that's not it. Must be the carjacking and subsequent abduction."

Blake grinned at her. "Well, there is that, I suppose." He gave back as good as he got.

His tone became quieter, his concern palpable. "Maybe if you talked about it I might be able to help. After all, I did know Trish. Maybe as I listen, I'll remember a detail or something useful she might have said."

"Not like there's anything else to do, is there?" Callie eased back in the seat and pulled her knees in close to her chest. Blake was reminded of a frightened child. His heart went out to her.

"I don't really remember anything myself. I was only about three and a half when Mom and Dad died. I've been told that they were avid day sailors. I guess they'd usually take me along with them but there was a new boat. My Dad wanted to get to know the feel of her before he took me out on it. Aunt Jean said he was always careful that way. Mom was his deck hand and relief steersman." The admiration in her voice was clear. Callie was a tough, determined woman from a family of determined women.

"Anyway, I guess that it was toward evening and they were on their way back to the marina when a freak thunderstorm came up suddenly. The lake got really rough and the winds were super strong. They had no choice but to run before it. The water level was low that year and there were some snags close to the surface." Her voice began to choke up.

"They probably had marginal control of the boat and, in the low light they couldn't see the snags. One of them supposedly tore the bottom out and the boat went down almost instantly. They never stood a chance." Blake noticed tears welling up in her now dark green eyes.

"Callie, I'm so sorry. I, I don't know what to say." He placed his large, masculine hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. She felt his compassion and concern through the simple gesture.

"Hey, it was a long time ago." She blotted her tears with her sleeve. "I know that they loved me. Aunt Jean made sure I always knew that."

After a short pause, Callie continued. "She was there for me almost immediately. I stayed with my babysitter's family until she got there. I don't remember much about what happened. I was really scared and I kinda withdrew."

"How did you manage to cope with all that? Do you remember?" She could hear the genuine caring and empathy in Blake's voice.

"I had an imaginary friend." The response was clear and immediate. No hedging, no embarrassment.

"She was kind of like a guardian angel. She was older, not a lot, just a year or two but definitely older. She had dark hair and a kind of pixy like impishness. It's going to sound crazy but, sometimes she would come to me in my dreams and tell me to run away so we could be together for real." Callie watched Blake carefully. Would he judge her? Think she was crazy?

Blake smiled. He didn't look toward her because the road had become a washboard nightmare. He kept the car creeping along to minimize the bouncing but it still felt like the shocks were blown.

"Hey, you do what you need to in order to get through something that terrible. I think an older, guardian angel, imaginary friend is pretty benign. Obviously, your aunt and uncle did a great job helping you through the death of your folks and a super job raising you. I mean, you're not a drug abusing mass murdering psychopath." He paused for affect. "At least, I hope you're not."

She laughed in spite of herself. "No, we've already established that, if anyone in this car is a murdering psychopath, it's you, remember?" Then she added, "But I'm afraid you aren't living up to the image. You have to drop that terrible streak of compassion or else you'll never get to be a full grown serial killer."

Callie's laugh trailed off. With a final soft chuckle she continued. "I feel like that little girl again 'cause I have to ask; how much further to where we're going?"

"About another ten miles. It gets better after this last little bit. The rain and runoff on the other side of the ridge actually run in ditches so you don't get this kind of washboarding."

As if to emphasize his words, they hit a particularly rough stretch of road as they approached the hill crest. "You don't have to pee again, do you? No rest areas here."

"No, not yet thank heaven." She wasn't really offended by his frankness but she blushed at it.

"If I had to, this road would have me either screaming for you to stop or I would be very embarrassed by now."

As they crested the hilltop, the road changed almost miraculously. It was still unpaved but the surface was hard packed and relatively smooth. Callie could see the drainage ditches along the side of the road. "Would it have been too much to do this on the other side as well?" Quiet sarcasm laced the question.

"County ran out of money and the logging companies don't see the sense in spending the money on roads, what with timber prices down like they are." The car accelerated slightly as he spoke.

"So why is this side better then?"

"County Commissioner has a hunting camp up this way and the County seat is ahead of us, not behind us." Blake flashed his impish grin.

"Same old story, power to the people –but only to the people in power." Almost as an afterthought he added, "Some people say I'm cynical. Can't imagine why."

She laughed again. This man was complex and contradictory. She should be more guarded around him but Callie couldn't help being charmed by his easygoing manner. She was actually more concerned about her occasional and disturbing rushes of sexual attraction.

The remaining miles to Blake's cabin passed in comparative silence. He occasionally pointed out some feature of interest and Callie made appropriate responses. She was enjoying Blake's company and his almost boyish enthusiasm for these woods and their native inhabitants.

Blake slowed the wagon and turned through what looked like a wall of brush. It parted easily although with protest as the branches squealed against the sides of the car. "Sorry about that." Blake said. "Good thing the old girls paint isn't pristine. Usually, I don't bring my truck up this far but, since we don't want any questions, I'm afraid we have to drive back to the compound."

"Compound? I thought you said we were going to a cabin." She felt a momentary twinge of concern again. But it was also accompanied by a tingling sensation in her nipples and feeling of soft warmth in her groin. These mixed messages from her body were not making this whole situation any easier.

"Yeah, well, if you say 'compound' these days people either think you're some religious cult leader or a survivalist whacko. Soooo, I say cabin." he smiled reassuringly at her. "Really, even compound is not the right term. It's more like a settlement. You'll see in just a second."

The wagon came to a halt at the edge of a large clearing. It overlooked a valley below and a series of small mountains, hills, and in the far distance, a flat plain. The view was breathtaking. As she looked at the clearing itself, Callie had the strangest sensation that she had stepped back into time. There was a long log cabin style building with multiple doorways. Small windows dotted the side of the building, one near each door. They seemed to be frosted or perhaps curtained. The log building was in the middle of what appeared to be an incomplete compound. Upright poles made from sharpened small trees formed three sides of what she supposed would be a fort. It looked like something you would see in an old western movie.

"What is all this?" she asked in wonder.

"It's an authentic replica of a fur trading post in the Dakotas from around the early to mid part of the 1800s. Or, at least, it will be when it's done." Blake opened the car door.

His pride was palpable. "C'mon, I'll show you around." He was half way around the car before finishing his short sentence.

Callie found herself being led out of the car and across the clearing. Blake's large, calloused hand gently but urgently enfolded hers.

"You.... You did all of this? By yourself?"

It reminded her of a poorly kept school play yard or athletic field. As she turned slowly to see around her, she realized that this entire expanse would eventually be encompassed by the log palisade. She also noted areas where quadrangles of posts jutted up from the ground about three or four feet.

"Well, most of it. I had some help from a very discrete, environmentally conscious contractor for some of the work but, mostly, it's mine. Been at it over two years. Every chance I get I come up and do some more. 'Course, it helped that the meadow was here. I could never have managed as much of it as I did if there had been brush and trees to clear away first."

"But, why? I mean, if you aren't a cult leader or survivalist, what is this all about?" Callie continued to look around her in awe.

"It's a surprise for my friends. My _true_ friends. Not those blue nosed snobs my family seems to like hanging out with."

"Okay, I'll bite. Who are your _true_ friends?"

"Rendezvous re-enactors."

"Okay, I understand the words but they don't mean anything to me. Who or what are rendezvous re-enactors?"

"We're people who are fascinated with the way that early explorers and trappers lived. There are groups all across the country. There are re-enactments from the Appalachians to the West Coast. From Texas to the Dakotas. Each year, just like in history, we don authentic costume, get together, trade wares, do demonstrations of vanishing skills, and live the good life for a few days."

"So, if there are re-enactments all over the place, what is this for?" Callie hoped that she didn't sound judgmental. She had just never known a grown man who played dress up before.

"Current rendezvous mostly take place in temporary encampments. Which is authentic, but we are always begging for places and paying way too much for the rent of ground. There are also a few living museums but they are mostly for the tourists. What I want to do is create a trading post atmosphere away from civilization where everyone who comes has as close to an authentic experience as we can give them." Blake was very pleased that Callie seemed to be taking an interest.

"That makes sense. If you're going to experience something, it should be as close to reality as possible. But, are you going to allow tourists and Lookie Lous?"

"Sure but they are not going to see a carnival like atmosphere. Many of the re-enactment groups, not just rendezvous re-enactors, have to raise their rent money and such not only through admission charges but through shows, amusements, and the sale of merchandise. Because this trading post is just for rendezvous there is no rent to pay. We can actually focus on demonstrating the true lifestyles of the frontier settlers and explorers instead of pandering in order to raise money."

"But, aren't they going to know you built it? I mean, it's no secret that your family is one of the richest in Seattle."

"That's the beauty of it. And I have to trust you to keep the secret. No one at rendezvous knows who I really am. I go by my re-enactment name and I make sure to keep a low profile."

"So, where are they going to think that this comes from? Santa Claus?"

"Ah, well, the truth is that it comes from a non-profit that funds historical preservation and re-enactment." Blake saw the doubtful look on Callie's face.

He held up his right hand as if taking an oath. "All true. I swear. Old Mr. Jamison set it up, legal as can be. There really is a foundation with a board and everything. The foundation helps all re-enactor groups in the Northwest, not just mine. They also fund scholarships for people to learn traditional methods of blacksmithing, leather tanning and leather working, candle making, weaving, printing, dying, bookbinding, cooking, you name it. If you have a good proposal and honestly want to preserve a dying skill or artisan form, the foundation will give it serious consideration. The goal is to make sure that these traditional skills are not lost in the hubbub of modern life. Heck, do you know how many people don't even know how to make simple biscuits from scratch? It's shameful."

Callie was charmed by Blake's passion for his project. She learned about many aspects of it as he took her around the compound. His knowledge was truly impressive as was his commitment to preserving the skills of an earlier way of life.

As evening approached, he led her to the long building. "We'll be staying here while things get sorted out." He pushed open one of the wooden planked doors. The inside surprised her. It was warmly furnished with what looked to be antiques. On the walls hand woven blankets hung like tapestries. The detail and workmanship were amazing.

"These are authentic, aren't they?" she asked.

"I'm impressed. Yeah, they are. Not from this area but most people don't realize that the tribes had a very extensive trade system worked out. How did you know they weren't copies?"

"Aunt Jean, among her other talents was in love with wool. She spun it, dyed it, wove it, and obsessed about it. I can go on at length about Tibetan weaving vs. Navajo, et cetera, et cetera......" She allowed the sentence to trail off.

"Sounds like a lady I would love to have met." The sincerity of Blake's voice was matched by the wistful look of regret on his chiseled face.

Suddenly he brightened. "Hey, it's getting late. How's about I arrange for dinner?"

"Dried bean stew and steamed grass?" Callie quipped caustically. "Seriously, I am starving. All I've had today is a pastry at the Inn."

Blake smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I haven't been such a good host, have I? Tell you what, let me get the fire going and within an hour of that, I'll have a mouthwatering meal for you. You can tend a fire, can't you?"

Callie assumed a posture of mock indignation. "Of course I can't. I am a modern woman not some frontier floozie. I can run a business, make a computer do amazing stuff and, in a pinch, hack websites, but I am hopeless at archaic household tasks."

Blake laughed as he kindled the fire in the large stone fireplace. "Okay modern woman, but you'll need to feed in wood, starting with this smaller stuff and eventually getting to these larger pieces if we're going to have dinner and stay warm tonight."

He showed her how to feed the fire and, when she was sure she understood what needed to be done, he rose to leave.

"Good thing it's this late. Fish'll be biting for sure." He reached the door. "Be back in about half an hour. You'll be okay until then, right?"

Callie looked at him and noted that he seemed genuinely concerned. He had lit several candles and an old glass oil lamp before going to the door. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Got light, got heat – well, getting heat – and I'm dry. Seems like most of my immediate survival needs are met."

Blake chuckled. "Really, I shouldn't be more than a half hour or so. Keep the door shut while I'm gone."

"Afraid someone will see the light and come rescue me?" she teased.

"Nope, bears." he turned and was gone.

Callie all but ran to the door and slammed it. From outside she could hear Blake laughing.

He was back as predicted in about a half hour. Blake carried the two large trout he had caught along with a handful of round green stalks and stems. The trout were cleaned and ready for the pan. He took down two cast iron pans from pegs near the fireplace. One was a prodigious monster large enough to hold both trout. The other was smaller. From a shelf near where the pans had hung, Blake took down a tin box and a wooden one. He also took down what looked like a terra cotta bottle.

Callie watched in amazement as he proceeded to flour and season the trout while the oil from the terra cotta bottle was warming in the skillet. Some of the green stems were put inside the fishes. "What are the plants you're putting in there?"

"Peppergrass. Adds a bit of seasoning beyond just salt." he replied as he began to cut the stalks into pieces about three inches long.

"And what's that?" She pointed doubtfully at the pile of round green stems.

"Cattail shoots. There mighty tasty. Taste a lot like..."

She cut him off. " _Don't_ say, tastes like chicken." she said emphatically.

Blake looked up and began to laugh uncontrollably. "The three most dangerous words in the English language. 'Tastes like chicken." He laughed even harder.

As he settled down, and while wiping tears from his eyes he continued, "No, I was going to say, tastes like asparagus. Really, they are amazingly good."

Callie was trying to come to grips with the idea of eating weeds for dinner. She had only been joking with Blake about boiled grass being on the menu. Now it looked like he really planned to serve it, or something pretty close to it.

She was roused from her reverie by Blake going to the far corner of the cabin. He tapped lightly on the floorboards with his toe. She could hear him muttering to himself. "Now where is it?"

She was about to ask what he was looking for when a section of the floor popped open.

"Aha!" Blake shot her a grin of immense satisfaction. He knelt down on the floor and removed the section of boards exposing a small chamber under the cabin.

He reached inside and removed a green bottle that tapered gently to a foil wrapper. "Ta Da! Sauvignon Blanc to go with the trout."

He stood up dusting off a few strands of straw that had come out with the bottle.

Callie was amazed but did not speak until he had replaced the flooring. "Sauvignon Blanc? In the wild west?" She was impressed with his resourcefulness but she couldn't resist the temptation to tease bait him.

"Hey, I believe in rustic. Not primitive." He produced a corkscrew from a woven grass basket on what she had rapidly come to think of as the pantry shelf.

Blake nodded with a questioningly cocked eyebrow to a pair of terra cotta beakers on the shelf next to some metal plates. "Wanna grab those for me?"

As she took down the beakers a satisfyingly musical note sounded as the cork parted from the bottle's embrace.

Blake smiled warmly at her. "I think a sip now and the balance with the fish."

He poured a bit of wine in each beaker, handing one to Callie. As she took it from him, their fingers touched briefly. It was as if electricity shot up her arm into that part of her just below her stomach. There it became aching, yearning warmth. The sensation was so profound she almost dropped the beaker.

She looked at Blake and, for just a moment, saw a smoldering desire rush through those bright blue eyes. In that instant he looked wild, as wild as his frontier fantasies. She hid her blush of desire behind the beaker as she sipped at the wine. It was surprisingly cool; the rich tangy flavor filled her mouth.

Blake's sudden movement drew her attention back to him. The look of hungry desire was gone. His enthusiasm had returned as he picked up the cast iron skillets and set them to heat on the fire grate. His tone was light and casual. "Better get this going."

The meal was everything that he promised it would be. She was amazed that he could produce a gourmet meal over an open fire in the middle of nowhere. Somehow, in the soft light of the oil lamp the on the smooth, worn planking of the table, the pan fried fish and cattail shoots looked elegant sitting on metal plates. Callie was ravenous. As she took the first forkful of trout an, appetizingly smoky aroma rose from the firm, tender, pale pink flesh. The wine complimented it perfectly, adding that slight citrus flavor the fish would have otherwise lacked.

She was somewhat less certain of the cattail shoots sautéed in olive oil.

"You really ought to try them you know." Blake gestured toward the bright green stack of shoots with one of his own. He had been eating them with his fingers, like celery stalks.

Not wanting to disparage his meal, Callie picked up a single shoot. She held tentatively between her thumb and forefinger. Her other fingers spread out as if she were afraid of contaminating herself by too close a contact with the cattail.

Blake smiled at her hesitance and chided her gently. "Really, you're going to love it once you try it."

She put half the shoot into her mouth, gingerly. Her lips closed around it. As Blake watched her cheeks, he could see her roll her tongue slowly around the cattail, tasting, testing. Her lips parted and drawing the tender shoot from her mouth, she nipped the tip of it off with her white, even teeth and began to chew it carefully.

Blake felt a rush of heat from his groin to his belly. He was extremely grateful at that moment to have to tabletop hiding his groin. _How could the mere act of tasting food be so utterly arousing?_ he wondered.

As she chewed up the tender cattail, the flavor filled her mouth with a clean, fresh taste that really was very reminiscent of young asparagus. Callie took another larger bite. She never imagined that reed shoots seasoned with salt and peppergrass leaves could be so amazingly tasty.

"It's good." She smiled at warmly at Blake. She again saw the glimpse of passion in his eyes that had been there when their fingers touched earlier.

"It certainly is." His eyes dropped the contact suddenly and he returned to his meal. As they ate he made small talk, telling her about the various edible plants that grew in the area. He also described how early trappers kept salt, flour, sugar and coffee on hand both as consumables and as trade goods.

She was grateful when he mentioned coffee. It gave her something to contribute to the conversation. "Now, coffee; there's something I understand."

Callie told him about getting into the coffee business with Aunt Jean's legacy. She glossed over the part about how Farmington's had forced her out of her first location and instead focused on her expansion plans for Morriston. Blake noticed that she skipped over of how his family business had upset her initial plans. He took it as a good sign.

Callie's mood changed as she told him that her plans for Morriston were now threatened because of Trish's death. Blake wanted to ask her more about her contact with Trish but the timing seemed off. She was obviously still very affected by the memory of discovering the body.

He didn't want to be obvious but he felt the need to draw Callie's memory away from the grim details of the murder. "So about this photo of you that Trish had, tell me a bit more about it."

She looked at him quizzically and then shrugged. "Not much to tell really. It's just a picture of a kid's birthday party. I'm sitting at a table with icing all over my face and there's a girl sitting next to me with her arm around my shoulder. You know, like we were friends or something. There's no date or anything to indicate where it was taken. The furniture is so generic it could be a restaurant, an amusement park, anywhere you might have a kid's party."

"And what about the other girl. What did she look like?"

Callie closed her eyes as if envisioning the picture. "She's about three years older than I am. Her hair is dark and curly. Her skin is a bit darker than mine, like she was tanned or maybe just darker pigmented. She looks happy. Her eyes are sad though. Like she has lost someone."

"And her posture?" Blake tried to sound interested but casual with the question.

"She's hugging me. It's not just a 'we're pals' kind of look. It's more like she is hugging me – almost protectively."

Callie opened her eyes. They were a little red and very moist as if she were on the verge of tears. Blake looked at her with even more concern. "Sorry, I thought it would help to move away from Trish's death."

"I know and I appreciate it. I don't know what's the matter with me. I think I'm just mentally and physically exhausted." She managed a wan smile.

Callie looked around and it dawned on her that this was a single room cabin. Not wishing to betray her anxiety, she asked, "So, the other doors on this house; are they to the bedrooms?"

Blake laughed, glad to talk about something unrelated to Farmington's Pastries, Trish's death or that weird photo she had.

"No, they'll be other cabins, store rooms, and the trading post store. Each cabin is completely self-contained." He noticed the look of puzzled concern on her face.

"So what, we sleep on the floor like animals?" she asked.

"No, that's your bed over there." He pointed to a large piece of furniture that looked like a sideboard on too tall legs. Blake could see the question on her face.

"Ah. So I sleep on top of it."

He chuckled, saying, "No you sleep _inside_ it." He walked over to the front of the piece of furniture and slid the front panel open. Inside was a mattress and pillow. The bed was made with simple cotton sheets and had a trade blanket covering them. "It's called a box bed. Or a cupboard bed if you prefer. Usually, they were built into the wall but there were some freestanding models like this one. It dates from the early 1800s but I assure you, it's as solid as a maple four poster. They were common accommodations for guests and the family children."

"Do you shut the door after you're inside?" Doubt etched her voice and her expression.

"Only if you have an extreme need for privacy. Actually, it's better to leave the doors open. The one near your head the most and the one near your feet just a few inches. Lets better air circulation and makes for a warmer sleep."

"And where do you sleep?" Gratefully, she noticed that the box bed was only big enough to accommodate one person comfortably.

He pointed above her to what looked like a storage alcove. "Up there in the loft. There are some feed sacks, some canvas tarp, and a couple of spare blankets. I'll be fine."

A sardonic smile crossed his face. "Unless you'd prefer the high ground?"

"No, this is fine. I can deal with a mattress in a box better than feed sacks, tarps, and probably spiders."

"Hey, don't say I didn't offer. But, if you get scared in the night, you can always invite your imaginary friend in. She shouldn't take up much room."

Callie pretended to pout. She noticed that Blake's face suddenly went all serious. She reached out and touched his forearm. "Hey, I'm not really angry."

The thrill of her gentle touch raced through Blake's chest. He would have sworn that his heart literally skipped a beat. Coming out of his momentary reverie, he looked at her before carefully speaking. He had been looking intently into space somewhere behind Callie. "Don't you see it?"

"See what?" Callie looked over her shoulder in the direction of Blake's gaze.

"No, nothing over there. You told me about your imaginary friend. Older, dark hair. Ornery but protective. She's the girl in the photo."
Chapter 13

It was the morning rush and Barry had to manage it alone. Usually Callie was there to help but today, she was still in Morriston. Knowing that she might not be back this morning, he had contacted another of the baristas to come in and she had agreed.

However, true to Murphy's Law, she called this morning saying that she was on the way to the urgent care center with her sick child. There was no time to get anyone else and, even if they did come in, the shop would just be shorthanded later in the day.

Aware that another person had walked up, he spoke without looking up from the steaming, hissing espresso machine. "What can I get started for you?"

"I'd like a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and anchovies. No cheese and a side of olives."

"Yes ma'am. Right away ma'am. And would those be fresh anchovies or canned?" His words came around a broad smile, mixed with musical laughter.

Liz Hackett grinned back at him. "Okay, here's another one, are you busy sir? Because I have a limited time opportunity to acquire a set of encyclopedias that will collect dust in your home while your children surf adult sites on the Web."

Liz was an old friend who had worked for Callie when her coffee stand was in the supermarket. "Seriously, could you use a hand?"

"If you mean you're not going to just stand there and clap for me, I would love some help. Back door's open." He jerked his head toward the rear of the shop.

"Here's you latte sir and thanks for waiting." He pushed the steaming cup out the service window toward the waiting customer. "Be sure to take one of those Madeline cookies. Our way of saying thanks for your patience."

The customer smiled, ignored the cookie and said something about it not being a problem. Liz washed her hands in the sink and donned an apron. "What do you need me to do?"

"Can you open the other window so we can get these folks on their way a little faster?" Barry moved one elbow as if gesturing toward the closed service window.

"Sure." Liz unlatched the second service window and slid it open. "Wanna run one cash register or two?"

"Two's faster." Barry tossed a lanyard with two cards attached in her general direction. "The white card has the codes on the back." he said while pulling another shot.

Liz snagged the cards out of the air before they hit the ground. Barry noticed the catch as he turned to serve up another drink. "Good hands." It was meant to be an offhand compliment on the catch.

Liz's reply nonplussed and embarrassed him. "If you only knew."

She quickly fell back into the easy rhythm of taking orders, pulling shots, making drinks and serving them. She and Barry seemed to have a way of working in the confined space without getting into each other's way. The time passed quickly and when the rush was over, Barry turned to her. "Now, about that pizza...."

Liz smiled warmly at him. "I'm too tired to eat now. How about a double chocolate mocha instead?"

"Coming right up." Barry returned to the espresso machine and started her drink.

"Listen, I really appreciate the help. I don't know how I would have managed. The other person who was supposed to come in today called in and I was on the verge of being overwhelmed."

Liz took the mocha from him and carefully sipped it. "No problem. I could see that you were handling it but could probably use the help in order to keep up. Now I remember why I went back to school."

Barry looked at her as she sipped her coffee. He had never really looked at Liz before. He had seen her around and knew that she and Callie went back several years but he had never noticed her before this. She had taken off the heavy black framed glasses that she usually wore. As she sipped and spoke, her head was down and she looked up slightly at him. Her eyes were an alluring hazel color and they were framed by lovely long dark lashes.

Barry caught himself staring at her. "Sorry, just kinda zoned out there for a second." He knew he wasn't being very effective at hiding his embarrassment.

"Ah." Liz smiled. She was charmed by his discomfort.

"Uh, listen. My friend Steve is playing tomorrow night at The Club. I was wondering, ah, if you might want to go see him."

"Uh-huh." It came out as one of those sounds that could either mean yes or a sarcastic no, or even 'what are you asking here?' Liz had found Barry attractive from the first. He was obviously of mixed race and devastatingly handsome. She found his rangy, lean frame very appealing and his skin reminded her of café au lait. She wasn't about to let him off the hook but she wasn't above having some fun with him at the same time.

Barry was looking almost panicked. "I mean, I'm not asking you out, well..... I am but....well, I mean...."The poor man looked on the edge of a panic attack. He was so anxious he was stammering.

Deciding that she had teased him enough, Liz smiled at him. "I would love to go see Steve play. And Barry..." She could not resist the temptation to tease him just a bit more. "I'm glad that you finally noticed me."

A customer came to the window and stood there for a moment, unnoticed. Finally he cleared his throat. Barry took his order and began making the drink. He mistimed steaming the milk and had to start over. After handing the drink and another free Madeline over to the customer, he turned back to Liz.

"You mean it? You'll go out with me?"

"Sure." Barry was certain that her smile lit up her entire face, especially her eyes.

"That's great!" His enthusiasm was very clear. "I hope you like blues. Steve wants to be a rocker but everything he writes comes out as blues." Barry stopped himself because he was sure he was beginning to sound like a babbling idiot.

"Love 'em. Besides, some of the biggest names in rock became some of the best bluesmen around, Clapton, Steely Dan ...."

"That's what I keep telling him. But maybe if you told him....."

"Are you sure you want to do that on a first date? I mean, you know what they say about musicians and girls. Especially back stage." She laughed to herself to see the look of consternation on his face.

"Oh! Well, maybe another time." He was stammering again.

Liz rose from her stool and lightly kissed him on the cheek. "Relax Barry. I was only teasing. I really want to go with _you."_ She let her palm trail slowly down the edge of his jaw. "Pick me up at eight?'" she asked over her shoulder as she opened the back door.

"Yeah, eight." Barry said rather dreamily. He knew she had said something but he was felt like he was floating. She had _kissed_ him!
CHAPTER 14

Callie awoke to the smell of baking biscuits, sizzling bacon and coffee. Coffee! The lifeblood of morning. She tried to stretch but found herself confined by the sides and head of the box bed. She had to admit, it was a snug and very comfortable place to sleep.

She had slept in her panties and blouse but now, with Blake down from the loft, she didn't quite know how to get dressed and preserve her modesty. Not that she hadn't had some very immodest thoughts about him.

"Is that coffee I smell?" The question worked its way through a stifled yawn.

"Yep, it's _the_ essential western beverage." Blake smiled and turned toward her when she peeked around the door of the box bed.

"Biscuits are almost done and I'm taking the bacon off now." He slid the cast iron skillet onto a low bench near the hearth. "I suppose you could use a bit of privacy." He pointed to her jeans on the floor.

"I moved your shoes over here near the fire so they'd be warmer. Mornings are a bit chilly here. Biscuits need about 5 more minutes so how's about I go get some more water and you can have the run of the place?"

Blake picked up the coffee pot and poured the steaming liquid into a metal cup. "Hundred percent authentic cowboy coffee. It'll put hair on your chest."

He set the cup down on the trestle table and walked to the door. "Be back in five – or thereabouts."

Callie reached to pick up her jeans. She slid into them as she scooted out of the box bed. Her feet hit the cold floor and she hastened to where her shoes sat on the hearth.

She was profoundly grateful to Blake for moving them closer to the fire. They were warm and felt like heaven on her poor cold feet. She rose and stretched long and slowly like a cat waking from a nap in the sunshine. Turning around she took the cup of coffee from the table and cautiously sipped.

"Oh! Agh!" Disgust distorted her face. She moved the tin cup further from her lips, wondering if it was truly poisonous or merely vile beyond words.

"He may be a great chef but he has a _lot_ to learn about coffee." The words were lost on the empty room. Despite the bitter, boiled taste and her revulsion she sipped again.

"Caffeine is where you find it." She mused to herself.

About half the coffee was gone when Blake knocked at the door. "Are you decent?"

"Yes, or as decent as I can be at this hour of the morning." Only after she spoke did the door inch tenuously open.

"Just wanted to make sure. Ready for breakfast?" His tone was cheerful, too cheerful for early morning. He took the large cast iron Dutch Oven off the hook in the hearth.

From the shelf he took down two tin plates and one of the squat terra cotta jars. He dished up some bacon and a couple of biscuits for each of them.

He pushed the squat jar across toward her as he handed her the plate of food. "Sorry, no butter for the biscuits but I do have a bit of honey left."

She drizzled the sweet. thick amber liquid onto one of the steaming biscuits. The combined aromas made her mouth water.

"More coffee?" Blake reached for the large tin pot on the edge of the hearth.

"Not right now." Callie mumbled around her first bite of biscuit. They were amazingly good. She relished the faint smoky flavor they had.

She was suddenly struck by the extreme intimacy of the moment. Here she was with an intriguingly virile man. She had slept in his cabin in only a blouse and lacy panties. Now he was feeding her a breakfast made over an open fire. It had been a very long time since anyone had seen her with her 'first thing in the morning' look. It should have been more unnerving to her yet, somehow it was 'right'.

"Funny, I would have taken you for a big coffee drinker, what with owning the stand and all." Blake poured more for himself.

"Oh, I'm a big coffee fan. It's just... how do I put this delicately?" She began to nibble slowly at the second biscuit.

Blake grinned. "Cowboy coffee is a bit – shall we say – indelicate for your palate?"

Callie blushed, partly at his knowing what she was thinking, partly in gratitude for his knowing it. The scene's intimacy seemed to come into even clearer focus.

"Yeah, I like strong coffee but this is ......."

"More like battery acid perhaps?"

Callie smiled gratefully. "Quite the gentleman, aren't you?" She admired his ability to laugh at himself.

"Well, it's a rough life here in the Old West and we have rough ways." He smiled back at her. "Sorry, it's the best I can do and, after all, caffeine is caffeine." He toasted her with his tin cup.

"Yes, well." she said sipping carefully at the dark, thick liquid. "If you give me the keys to the car, I happen to have a French Press in there and I can make you some coffee that won't eat through the table, floor, and down to the bedrock if it's accidentally spilled."

"Well, I'll walk you out to the car, but I don't particularly want you taking a fit of pique and driving off. That could make solving this mess a whole lot more difficult for me."

He was charmed by her and excited that she, of all people, was his first 'guest' at the retreat. She was a real complication for him right now though. He was unquestionably very attracted to her, and she might be helpful, but he couldn't take the risk of her betraying his whereabouts.

Callie studied him carefully. "Blake, just how would I find somewhere to go? I don't know where I am and I could never find my way back here. You took every dirt track, game trail, and wide spot between bushes there is on this God forsaken mountain."

"Yeah, I did kinda take the scenic route here. But you know that the County seat is just downhill and close by. I want to trust you Callie but....." he let the doubt hang in the air like the smell of the bacon.

"Okay mountain man. Here's one for trusting me. Last night when you went fishing for dinner you didn't restrain me. I assume it's because you thought I couldn't walk out of here to find help. Right?"

"Well, yeah. That, and I know I could track you."

"Okay hotshot, but what was to prevent me from walking out into the clearing and using my cell phone to call for help? I'll bet that this high up and with that clear view, there's a pretty strong signal."

He looked at her, dumbfounded. "You have a cell phone? With you? Right now?"

Callie looked at Blake to see if he was truly serious. "Doesn't everyone these days?"

Blake's expression became sheepish and embarrassed. "I have a confession. I have one but I keep it in my kitchen junk drawer. I put it in there about 3 years ago when they gave it to me."

Callie stared at him in disbelief as his self-conscious admission continued. " Every once in a while someone asks if I want a newer phone but I just tell them that the old one is good enough for what I use it for."

Callie tried to suppress her bubbling giggle. "Okay, I'll bite, what _do_ you use it for?"

Blake blushed slightly. His voice became so quiet it was almost a whisper. "A recipe weight."

Callie's giggle evolved into a full blown laugh. Blake smiled a broad, enthusiastic grin and thought how musically enchanting her laugh was.

"Hey, it works! When I have the window open or a fan running, the recipes used to fly around the room. Now the phone holds them down on the counter." She couldn't miss the mildly defensive tone of his speech.

He hurried to shore up his argument. "It's a safety thing too. Once a recipe flew under the pan and into the flames. It ignited and that set off the smoke alarms."

"I got the fire out. But I couldn't figure out how to reset the alarms. I'm almost hopeless when it comes to modern technology." He sighed softly.

Making a gesture of helplessness, he shrugged. "I can run a smithy, tan hides into leather, fix a broken wagon wheel but new stuff?"

Callie was holding her sides because she was laughing so hard. When she stopped, she looked warmly and indulgently at Blake. "You're charmingly and hopelessly lost in the past. You know that don't you?"

Blake just shrugged as if to say 'Yeah, so?'

As she imagined Blake using what was probably a very expensive touch screen phone for a glorified paper weight, she remembered Detective Baines saying Trish's cell phone had been tampered with.

Suddenly she knew how she could confirm her feeling that this man couldn't be guilty of the brutal crime for which he was being hunted.

"Well, if they ever force you to get a new cell phone, the SIM from the old one will probably fit into it."

He looked at her – obviously not comprehending what she had said. "SIM?"

Callie could see that he was clearly lost so she told him about the little data card in the back of a cell phone which has all the phone numbers, pictures, etc on it. "You know, the little chip behind the battery?"

Blake looked at her questioningly. "Yeah, the batteries. Never found the battery door to check 'em. I always thought they must be AAAs or those flat watch batteries because the phone is so small."

He grinned at her. "But they must be some batteries because they have never failed me in three years of hard use! Of course, they might have worn out faster if I actually knew how to turn the darned thing on."

She laughed again, this time with as much with relief as amusement. She was sure now that Blake had been framed.

_There's no way he could have known how to remove the SIM card or that might have relevant data._ she thought to herself.

Callie smiled at him. "Blake, I know that you didn't kill your assistant. I also know that you were framed and we are going to find out who did this to you."

Blake stared at her for a long moment. Puzzlement, relief and confusion played across the crags of his face. "I'm grateful for your confidence but, why the sudden turn around?"

Callie looked into his eyes, those deep sapphire blue eyes in which she had seen such passion. It occurred to her that she might actually have a chance to find out how deep Blake's desire actually ran. "Because you just proved it to me."

Blake didn't understand how that was possible. She could see it so she explained his 'proof' to him.

"I was there in the office when the detective went through her wallet looking for an emergency contact number. He tried to find it on her cell phone but the phone had no data in it. He took out the battery and saw that there wasn't any SIM in the slot. The killer obviously thought that there was something important or incriminating on her phone so he made sure that the cops couldn't find it. He simply removed it and probably destroyed it later. There's no way that you would know to do that to her phone. So you see, you couldn't have killed her."

"Well thank God that someone can understand that I didn't kill Trish." His shoulders let go of their tension as he experienced a profound rush of relief.

"Now maybe we can figure out who is framing me for her murder and why." There was a distinct note of righteous anger in his profoundly resonant voice.

Suddenly Callie didn't at all worry about being in this remote location with Blake.

The morning sun coming through the window was casting a warm, golden, romantic light in the room and here she was, alone with this strong, capable, gentle man. A man that she found irresistible, despite the very short time that she had known him.

_You are such a contradiction._ She thought _. Executive in a large, successful company, mountain man re-enactor, gourmet chef who can make a sumptuous meal from nothing, but unable to program or use your cell phone for anything but a paperweight._

She had always hated contradictions. They were problems to be solved, issues to be ironed out. Now, it was surprising to find just how fascinating and attractive a contradiction could be.

Callie stood up and gave Blake a friendly peck on the cheek. As she did so, her nipples brushed against his muscled arm. A shiver of desire raced through her, leaving her breathless and she lingered against him a moment longer than she intended.

Blake looked at her with his smoldering sapphire eyes. He placed his strong hand gently on her arm. The tingle became positively electric. She was in danger of being overwhelmed by the warmth of him. Callie lowered her head to hide the warm blush of desire that was making itself known on her face.

Her eyes were downcast and her voice very soft. "So, what do we do next?"
CHAPTER 15

"Twenty four hours and no response. Where the hell is she?" Will Sampson was muttering to himself. In another few days, according to his publicity machine's plan, he was to announce his betrothal to Callie Adams.

The idea was to show him as an up-and-coming family man who had finally found the perfect all-American girl. She had overcome the disadvantages of her parents' death and being raised by relatives. She was a savvy small business owner. You just couldn't put a price on the publicity value of having a woman of business who came up by her bootstraps as your wife. In short, Callie was the perfect mate to round out the image for a no-nonsense politician of the people. And now she had disappeared.

Will didn't want to go back to the coffee shack and talk to that 'pain in the neck' kid Barry again. As far as he knew, Barry might have spoken to Callie but failed to pass along Will's message – just out of spite.

He had never liked Barry and he never would. "Note to self, once we're married, start working on Callie to dump that kid."

Susan recognized Will's agitation the minute she entered his den. He snatched the polling data from her and threw it down on the credenza without even opening the cover. He was trying to memorize his new speech but kept muffing the lines. His frustration was mounting by the minute.

"Sit down for a minute and let me see if I can work out some of those knots." she told him.

He grumbled as he plopped down in the straight backed chair usually reserved for staffers who were being called on the carpet. Susan kneaded and rubbed his shoulders. Some of the tension seemed to ease. He closed his eyes and made soft noises of appreciation. She massaged his neck and shoulders a bit more and then, very deftly, moved in front of him. She had undone the top button on her blouse so that her breasts would peek out ever so slightly. Will opened his eyes and smiled.

She smiled provocatively at him. "I think you need some body work if we're going to get you relaxed enough to get through this speech."

His hands framed her shapely hips and slowly moved up to cup her breasts. "You know, you could be right."

As they fumbled to disrobe while heading down the hallway to the spare room, the credenza got bumped and the stack of papers spilled.

Will was pacing the floor of the den again. Before taking a 'break' he had been studying the text of his new speech and looking over some of the data from the recent polls. He currently held the lead in the district. His opponent was trailing by several points but was slowly gaining on him. The current thinking was to focus more on Will's popular appeal. That's why it was so important to find Callie, and quick.

"Susan!" Will shouted.

From the spare bedroom came the reply, "Just a second."

Moments later, Susan Fields came down the hallway, brushing her hair smooth again. Her blouse was unbuttoned and Will admired her young full breasts peeking out over her lace bra. "What do you need now?" She peeked provocatively from behind a long tress of hair.

"I wanted to look over that latest poll data. Where did it get off to before we paused to refresh ourselves?"

Susan rummaged through a pile of papers that had fallen to the floor. They had been stacked on the credenza and would have stayed there if not for the rather hasty, urgent trip down the hallway.

"Here it is." She handed the errant folio to Will.

She had never intended to become romantically involved with Will Sampson, not that she hadn't always found him attractive. She became one of his earliest campaign staffers because she believed in his populist message. Susan knew that Will was going to go far in politics and she intended to go along with him. She and Will had dated for a time and what began as a campaign relationship quickly became more intimate. But that had changed once Callie Adams came to town.

Susan stayed with the campaign even after Will had shifted his attention to Callie. She knew men like Will Sampson and knew them well.

Susan didn't have a wide circle of friends. Women like her usually didn't. Those friends she did have tended to be opportunists like herself. The attached themselves to wealthy men who wanted to be diverted from their business or family lives. When the fire dwindled or fortunes changed, they simply moved on to another man who had enough money to be attractive. None of the women she knew had ever taken up with a politician. They didn't understand why she stayed on with Will after being dumped by him.

"Men like Will have two faces, one for the public, the other for themselves. I plan to be what the private face looks to and needs." she had explained.

"Callie Adams is a better match for the public face. She has the background that fits with his message. But she's not the kind of woman a man like him really needs. She's too straight. Too independent to understand and meet his needs. That's why he'll always come back to me. That and the fact that I will do things for him that she would never do."

It seemed as if time had proven her right. Callie didn't understand Will's larger purpose. She was too self-centered. Too straight laced. She would never understand the complex needs of a man like Will. Now it looked like she had bailed on him over some silly misunderstanding.

Besides, now Susan had better, more important reasons to stay close to Will Sampson as he began his rise to political power.

Susan looked at the candidate as she cleared up the papers that had fallen from the credenza. She watched him open the folder and scan the data. She thought, _Much more relaxed now._

"This is showing that my 'worthy opponent' is still gaining. We really need this public relations blast to give us back a clear and commanding lead." Will looked at Susan as she finished buttoning her blouse, all the way this time.

He made a mock pout, reminiscent of a child who just had his favorite toy taken away.

"I need you to do something for me."

"Sure. You know I'll do whatever it takes to get you elected." She smiled knowingly. "What do you want me to do?" She could tell that Will had something in mind.

"I need you to do some snooping in Morriston. We've got to find Callie and get her back onboard with this. Go up there; maybe say that you're looking to set up a luncheon meeting with the Chamber to talk about the local economy and how we can help them. Check out the hotel; see if she's there or if they know where she might have gone. Also, drop in on a couple of the real estate agents. See if she has been checking out any possible sites for this idiotic café she wants to open."

Will paused thoughtfully. "Best not to ask the agents too directly. You know how they gossip. Maybe ask about any properties for lease near where she is thinking of opening. You know, where we can have a post election office to serve the outlying constituents. That sort of thing."

"Leave it to me Will. I'll be the soul of discretion. Like always." She gave him a quick kiss and then took out a handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his face. "You work on your speech and I'll find our lost duckling."

Susan left the den walking with a slow, deliberately provocative sway. Even after he could not see her Will listened to the sound of her heels slowly striking the flooring until she went out the front door.
CHAPTER 16

Callie and Blake spent the morning trading information about Trish Martins and their interactions with her. Blake told her more about Trish's work duties and office demeanor.

He finished with, "When you really come down to it, she was pretty much a loner. I mean, she did great work and, like I said, she was an absolute ferret for information. She could dig up not only business information, but the personal dirt on many of the people we were negotiating with. The playing field's a lot different over there. It's much more of a 'no holds barred' atmosphere and some of the people we deal with like to renegotiate as they go. Until the ink is dry on the contract, they see it as changeable and they'll go to any lengths to get the best deal they can."

He paused, thinking for a moment. "In fact, I'm not sure that they wouldn't try to change things as the ink was drying. There's a certain ruthlessness to the way things are done that I find really challenging and almost appealing. And, as if things weren't difficult enough with that, there's also a complex social code that you can't violate despite the cutthroat way things are done." Blake paused again.

At that moment, Callie could believe that he was a ruthless and relentless negotiator. The fact that he took pleasure in competing, overcoming resistance, and prevailing appealed to her on one level but disturbed her on another. She was uncomfortably aware of her growing attraction to this man of contradictions and surprises. She didn't need any more complications in her life right now; especially not a fascination with Blake Farmington.

Actually, Blake was revisiting the conflict within himself. He enjoyed the challenge of getting the Asian expansion project moving but he also yearned to be free of the family business. The tactics of negotiation in a tough, often unfamiliar business environment reminded him of carving out a settlement in the wilderness. There were unseen dangers, unforeseen difficulties, and a deep sense of satisfaction in success. But the corporate culture that had come to dominate the Farmington business was a real problem for him. He wasn't willing to lead Farmington Fabulous Pastries under those conditions.

He was far less suited for it than his elder sister. She had a taste for the politics, the intrigues, and the maneuvering that being the head of a large corporation took. However their father was a traditionalist and insisted that the business be passed on to Blake rather than Beverly. The Asian expansion project was part of grooming him to take over the reins of control.

Blake became aware that he had lapsed into a prolonged silence. He looked toward Callie and found her staring quizzically at him. _She must think I'm a real moody kook at times._ he mused.

"Sorry, he said in a slightly embarrassed tone. Got lost in thought for a moment."

_You're not making it better._ he berated himself.

"It's okay." She replied. "I sometimes work things out that way myself. Only, you're more circumspect than I am."

It was Blake's turn to level the quizzical look. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I tend to do my processing out loud. The looks I get sometimes!" She sniggered. "Fortunately, most of the time I have a Bluetooth in my ear and I just point to it. Mostly people think I'm on the phone when I do that."

Blake smiled, and chuckled softly at the mental image.

"I know." she laughed with him. "It's the modern question – is it psychosis or a Bluetooth? It can be so hard to tell with _some_ people."

Still grinning at her, he continued. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, anyway, with such a dog eat dog climate, it was really useful to have Trish's super search skills on hand. I would find something out at a cocktail party or a business meeting. She would take the information and run it to ground. With her help, I was able to avoid making any serious breaches of decorum as well as skirting some of the pitfalls that others have made. Also, knowing about some of the other guys' skeletons and where they were hidden greased a lot of the process. It's amazing how much more you can get by protecting someone's interests rather than exposing them to ridicule. I don't get these guys who are always looking to humiliate the opposition. It only causes long term resentment and invites retaliation."

Callie watched him intently. He was such a complex man. Ruthless enough to dig for dirt on business associates, thorough enough to confirm rumors, and ethical enough to not use damaging information to the detriment of others.

"I know Trish was on the computer almost constantly whenever a critical juncture was coming up. If there was a crisis, she would even do work from home and bring it in on one of those stick thingies."

Callie giggled at his lack of tech savvy vocabulary. "Stick thingies? I didn't know you were aware of the industry term for them. Most people call them memory sticks or thumb drives but only the truly knowing call them stick thingies!"

Blake pulled a face as if to say 'you've hurt my feelings'. His fake pout was quite charming.

"Yes, I know what you mean." Callie let him off the hook. Then, she paused and worried at her lower lip with her teeth. Blake tried not to stare but he found the gesture so erotically appealing. He was aware of a quickening in his lower body, a desire for her that would have to remain unsatisfied. He was glad she was deep in thought, just in case his ardor began to show, outwardly.

She didn't seem to notice him staring. Her voice was thoughtful as if she were analyzing something. "It could be important that Trish used a thumb drive to bring the research back to the office."

Suddenly she became aware of his intense gaze. She assumed that it was because he was paying attention to her words. "You said she would do work at home. Do you know anything about what kind of computer she had or anything like that? I mean, you were in her apartment. Tell me what you saw."

"Well, there wasn't a lot of room. It was just a one bedroom. I remember a little alcove in the living room area. She had one of those black steel and glass computer desks. She had a laptop I know, and there was a printer. I remember that she once said that after she won the Cast Iron MasterChef Competition she was going to get herself a 'real' computer. I'm pretty sure that she got hers either used or refurbished. It was older. None of that slick chrome and fancy patterned plastic cover stuff. It was kinda boxy and black."

"Sounds like an older PC system. Lots of them get bought up after their leases expire. Techies like to refurbish them and then resell them on the auction sites. I know a few people who do that. They make pretty good money on the turnarounds. Whenever my friend Liz wants to get some new piece of expensive equipment, she dumps a few laptops into an auction site and generally raises what she needs in a week or so."

Blake shook his head. "There's just a whole 'nother world out there. Me, I prefer the nineteenth century. It was simpler."

She smiled and put her hand on his forearm. Warmth shot through her and she was afraid she was blushing. "Not another world, just another frontier. People like Liz are blazing the trails into it just like...." She was stumped.

_Who blazed trails into the Old West?_ she thought.

"Lewis and Clark?" he prompted.

Now she was sure that her cheeks were bright pink. She had learned the names of many of the western explorers in American History class. It was just embarrassing to not be able to pull one out of memory before Blake's filled in the blank.

"Right. Lewis and Clark." She allowed her hand to linger on his arm.

Blake covered her hand with his. The warmth became a burning heat. She was afraid she was going to melt – right into his arms and then into his bed. She quickly withdrew her hand.

"I need you to excuse me for a minute." She rose from the bench. "It must be the clear spring water. I'll be back in a minute."

Callie made her way behind the long house to where the privy was located just inside the woods. As she approached it she noticed that a long blanket hung over what had been an open doorway this morning.

She smiled at the simple gallantry. Blake was nothing if not considerate of her need for privacy. She noticed that the covering did not go all the way to the ground. A bright patch of the stone flagged floor showed under it where the sun peeked inside the one-holer. Still, modesty was more than provided for.

She didn't really need the privy as much as she needed to calm down. She was quite certain that Blake had not killed Trish but still, her overwhelming attraction to him was out of character for her. She'd had lovers in the past. Men who were attracted to her and whom she thought might be interesting. But she had never felt as fascinated as she was now. Sex had come with time but she had never sought it out. It was usually disappointing when it happened.

Moreover, she had never once been the sexual aggressor. These feelings of warmth whenever Blake touched her or even looked at her were unusual and surprising. Maybe it was the craziness of the situation that made her feel this way. Whatever it was it was a little frightening and she was pretty certain that it was mostly one sided.

Callie stepped through the curtain and was turning around when she heard the noise. From beside her she heard the sound of beans shaking in a wooden tube.

_Rattlesnake!_ The thought slammed into her, freezing her in place like an Arctic storm. She had once heard that they could strike up to half their body length or more. The best thing was to stand still but, for how long? The rattle came again, bringing along with it paralyzing waves of fear. Callie could feel her pulse racing.

She suddenly remembered to breathe. Then sound tore from her throat, a high pitched shriek of panic.

Blake was out of the door at a dead run before the shriek ended. His smoothly muscled legs covered the distance to the outhouse in a matter of seconds. He could see Callie's feet below the blanket he'd tacked up earlier this morning. To the right of her was a rattler, coiled, tail up, apparently ready to strike. He caught sight of a forked stick in the pile of brush nearby.

He shouted as he diverted his ground eating stride to the brush pile. "Don't move. Stand perfectly still."

Grabbing the stick, he broke off the dry tines so that they were just about an inch long each. The wood gave way easily under the force of his large, strong hands. He could hear Callie's shallow, panicked breathing. It came in rasping gasps as she fought down the fear.

"It's okay. I can see him. You're in no danger as long as you stay still." Blake approached the privy door obliquely so as not to startle the snake into striking.

He could see it through the crack between blanket edge and door frame. The snake's head was just beyond the coils of its body. Its tongue was flickering in and out tasting the air as it searched for prey.

Blake positioned the stick in the gap and spoke quietly. "Don't move. No matter what happens, don't move until I tell you. Okay?" The deep resonance of his voice rumbled through her even though it was just barely above a whisper.

Callie mewled a tense yes.

With a speed and precision that was frighteningly accurate Blake thrust the forked stick through the gap made by the blanket and door frame. He pinned the snake's head to the stone flagged floor. The snake's body writhed, coiled and whipped in the air as it tried to escape the sudden restraint. Callie gasped with surprise at the movement but, true to her word, she did not move. Her mouth was dry and it felt like her throat was blocked by her thudding heart. Blake reached inside the blanketed door and encircled her waist with a single muscular arm.

"Hold on around my neck." His voice was calm, compelling and, most of all, reassuring. She knew he was in control now, managing this crisis.

Callie threw her arms around him, grateful for something to do beside think of her peril. He wheeled her out of the doorway and around the side of the privy in one smooth, fluid movement. He moved so swiftly, so surely that her feet left the ground and cleared the door frame before she was aware of motion. In that moment she thought, _He has the strength and agility of an acrobat._

"There he goes." Blake pointed toward the ground between the outhouse door and the brush pile.

Callie could see the grass moving slightly as the snake made a hasty retreat from the stone floored privy to the shelter of the brush pile.

Blake now had both arms around her waist and was holding her, feet off the ground and deliciously, enticingly, dangerously close. Callie had her arms locked around his neck. Without thinking he kissed her hard, ardently, passionately. His hungry mouth possessed hers. She parted her lips as his insistent tongue slipped inside her mouth. It probed her tenderly, thoroughly and with overwhelming longing. His husky groan resonated in the core of her as he crushed her to him with his hard, powerful arms.

She was surprised when she responded with just as much ardor. She was even more amazed at the strength of the sudden, intense, demanding arousal that surged through her body. They were interlocked, the heat growing between them. Callie moaned deep in her throat. The fire coursing through her veins was all consuming. She felt herself growing even more excited. Her nipples strained through her blouse, crushed against his broad, manly chest. She felt the dewy moisture of her excitement dampen her panties.

The smell and feel of Blake, so male, so close, so eager, filled her senses nearly to bursting. She was aware that she was slipping the bonds of Earthly awareness and traveling toward an electrifying land of fiery, fervent sensation.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Blake lowered her to the ground. Her feet touched the pine needles littering forest floor and the spell was broken. It was as if a light switch had been turned off in him. The hot, hard, undeniable bulge she was sure she had felt against her abdomen was gone. The desire she had read in Blake's eyes had abruptly disappeared.

She was aware of how vulnerable she was here alone with this strong, attractive, contradictory man. A wave of confusion, disappointment, and regret swept over her swamping her body's heady, urgent, sensual response.

_What was I thinking? What was he thinking?_ she asked herself.

"Blake? You okay?" Her voice betrayed her uncertainty. She avoided making direct eye contact.

_What would someone like Blake Farmington want with me?_ she brooded. _His society includes industrialists, foreign dignitaries, the social elite. He can have his pick of any of a dozen powerfully connected women. Why would he want the owner of a piddly coffee shack in an out of the way place like Bellington?_

"Yeah, it just that we have a lot to do. I think we better get back to work." She couldn't understand why but he sounded embarrassed.

Blake's emotions were roiled by a crushing wave of regret. Here was this strong, capable, beautiful woman who was terrified by a snake. And he, like some opportunist taking advantage of her fright, allowed her nearness to tempt him into unveiling the depth of his passion for her.

Blake knew from the moment her saw her that Callie was the only one for him. He had never understood how people could say that they fell in love at first sight but it was true. In his heart, in his very soul, he knew that she was 'The One'. And then there was that first kiss when he pretended they were newlyweds. He'd swear there had been an audible click as his soul connected with hers.

His thoughts churned like white water in a mountain river. _What if she doesn't share your feelings for her? How could she? She barely knows you. She is alone here and vulnerable. You may have ruined the only chance you have for happiness. Get a grip Farmington. Focus on the problem at hand and stop scaring her. Otherwise, if there is still a chance for you to win her, you are going to blow it – big time._

Callie felt her face burn dull red with burgeoning embarrassment as she smoothed her rumpled clothing. She struggled to dampen her desire. Her pulse slowed slightly and the glow faded from her lower body leaving an achy, unfulfilled, yearning feeling behind.

Maybe she had misread the cues. Maybe she hadn't seen passion smoldering in his deep blue eyes. _Okay. So maybe that kiss was an impulse. Just two people in need of a bit of comfort and closeness._

Never-the-less, for once she had felt vibrantly alive with visceral yearning, something she never knew she could feel. Maybe it had only been a couple madly passionate kisses but she had gotten a wonderful new knowledge from them.

As she finished arranging herself, Callie resolved to respect Blake's reservations.

"Right." She kept her voice even, neutral, and seemingly unaffected despite the roiling cauldron of emotions within her. If he wanted to be cool about things, she could be too. She wasn't about to play the role of the hurt, not-quite lover.

The walk back to the long house was awkward and uneasy. Neither of them spoke. To Callie the sound of the wind in the trees whispered of disappointment. The crow's call seemed to cry 'Shame, Shame!' to Blake.
CHAPTER 17

Susan Fields checked into the Morriston Inn at precisely three fifteen that afternoon. Her timing was purposefully exact. She wanted to make preliminary inquiries about Callie from the outgoing day staff and then ask more questions of the afternoon staff if that became necessary. She didn't want staff from different shifts to have time to compare notes about her questions which might arouse suspicions.

"Good afternoon." She beamed at the middle aged clerk with the receding hairline. Susan affected the slightest hint of a Southern accent. It always seemed to beguile men, conveying propriety and just a hint of repressed desire. She had worn her 'interview' dress. It was snug fitting and had a lace insert at the deep neckline that was designed to tease at what lay beneath the delicate pattern.

_That's right honey, get a good look. That way you'll be thinking about breasts and not my questions._ she thought as she leaned slightly forward to put down her bag. _Men are such easy creatures to manipulate_.

"Good afternoon madam." Rather than the friendly enthusiasm expected of him, the clerk's voice sounded vaguely distracted. A hint of color rose in his cheeks as he wondered if she had noticed him staring at her ample attributes.

"Welcome to the Morriston Inn. Will you be checking in today?" His tone was more even now that he was repeating the familiar phrases and questions of the standard greeting.

"Yes, thank you." Susan's tone was friendly and outgoing. She gave no indication that she had seen him peering at her cleavage. Susan removed her credit card and picture ID from her wallet leaving her bag on the counter top. "Would you have a room on the top floor? I just adore the view of the mountains from the top floor." She gushed at the gullible clerk.

"Madam is in luck. We do have one room left on the top floor and, fortunately, it does face the mountains." He intoned the information obsequiously as he reached for the credit card she offered.

Susan deliberately knocked her bag from the counter where it had rested. The move was well practiced and appeared accidental. "Gracious but I am clumsy today." She bent down to retrieve the small bag, this time offering the clerk not only a view of her bosom but a flash of thigh as the side vent of her skirt parted.

Leaning over the counter, the clerk almost gasped, just as she intended. "Entirely my fault madam. I am so dreadfully sorry." he lied. "Permit me to extend some token of apology."

Rising slowly and keeping her head down as she pretended to straighten the contents of her bag Susan purred "Why, aren't you just the sweetest man?" She ended the question with another dazzling smile.

The man blushed again and protested that it was nothing.

Susan, still beaming, began her subtle interrogation. "Perhaps when I meet up with my friend who is staying here, we could have a bottle of wine?"

The clerk immediately agreed stating that it and complimentary hors d'oeuvres would be sent to her at any time that was convenient.

"Would madam wish me to see if her friend has already checked in?" he cooed.

"Why you _are_ sweet, aren't you? Yes, that would be very kind. She's Ms. Adams. Ms. Calista Adams, Callie." Susan's voice purred with warmth. She also infused it with a hint of sexual suggestion. She believed that men always responded well to that kind of implication, no matter how unlikely it was to be realized.

The clerk consulted his room reservation screen shaking his head. "No madam, I have no Ms. Adams. She has neither checked in nor does she appear to have a reservation." He looked doubtfully at her.

"Well, we did arrange to come up from Seattle on a whim. After all, I didn't have a reservation either and you were sweet enough to find a room for me."

"Perhaps Ms. Adams was delayed in her departure?" he suggested helpfully.

"I'm sure you are right. But my, look at the time!" she said as if surprised and dismayed. "I must be keeping you from finishing up. Your shift is ending soon, isn't it?"

"It is, but madam need not concern herself. Here at the Morriston Inn, our primary consideration is for the comfort and convenience of our guests, not ourselves."

"Never the less, I should not delay you with my chattering." She smiled graciously at him.

"And after you have been so helpful .... Roger?" she said after purposefully looking at his name plate. "Perhaps I will see you tomorrow?" She playfully flicked at the brass name plate. Her gesture was designed to be mockingly intimate as well as to give him a good whiff of her perfume.

"Madam is too kind. Actually, tomorrow is my day off but any of the staff will be happy to assist you with any need. You have but to ask." He beamed back at her with a thinly veiled longing that would have to remain unrequited if he wanted to keep his job.

"Well then, good afternoon Roger and I hope you enjoy your day off." She gave him one last peek at her lace covered cleavage as she bent down to retrieve her overnight bag.

Susan Fields did enjoy the view of the mountain. The grass covering the ski runs was all but hidden by a riot of colorful wild flowers. _It's like looking at one of Monet's paintings._ she mused.

She sipped at the mineral water she found in the self service bar and debated whether to report to Will yet. _Really, all I know is that she isn't staying here_. she said to herself, deciding that it was probably best to wait until she had more information. If Callie had been here yesterday to do a demo she must have given someone an idea of where she might be going. Susan resolved to wait for a while before reporting in.

When Susan entered the dining room of the Morriston Inn, every male in the room was aware of her. Depending on your viewpoint, she was either overdressed or under dressed for the dinner hour. She wore a tight fitting strapless black sheath dress that clung enticingly to her well toned body. The cups of the bodice were cut in such a way as to support each breast individually while making the observer wonder how it ever stayed up. It was the dress of a man-eater. Designed to convey promises she rarely redeemed.

She needed that kind of power and attention. She sat alone but could see furtive glances from the surrounding tables, each one a validation of her desirability from every man in the dining room. Occasionally she favored one with a small sketch of a smile. She also enjoyed the spiteful glares of the women in the room. _If you can't command this kind of attention honey, it's not my fault._ she thought returning each glare with an almost imperceptible shrug of her bare, tanned shoulders.

Susan dined alone save for the occasional attention of the wait staff asking if she needed more water, more wine, more rolls. Each offer was responded to with a faux genteel Southern charm and gratitude.

Finally, as the waiter offered to bring the dessert tray, Susan had an idea of how to approach the question of Callie's demo. "I think I will look at the tray but, I warn you, my decision will really depend on how good the coffee that goes with it is."

The waiter nodded knowingly. "I am sure that you will be most pleased. We get our coffee direct from one of the most popular roasters in Seattle."

Susan's mouth formed into a pretty pout. "Most popular doesn't always mean best. I know of a little shack in Bellington that serves the _best_ coffee and they get it from their exclusive roaster that's tucked away on a little street in the U District."

The waiter brightened for a moment. "Would you by any chance be referring to 'Has Beans'?"

"Why, yes. You clever man. How do you know about Has Beans?" She favored him with one of her dazzlingly seductive smiles.

"Oddly enough, they are going to be our new coffee service." he said with pride.

"Going to be? They aren't now?" She affected a disappointed pout.

"Not now. The owner was just here yesterday doing a demo. All the wait staff got a chance to sample their coffee. It is amazing."

He noticed the pout. His voice lowered conspiratorially. "I'm pretty sure that there is some leftover. If you would like, I can make up a press pot full for you." His tone conveyed his pleasure at being able to gratify her wish.

The smile turned back on. "That would be lovely. You would do that for me?" She played him like a trout on a line.

"For a connoisseur? Of course." He gave her a very unprofessional wink and turned toward the kitchen.

The waiter returned several minutes later with a French Press pot on the dessert cart. The aroma was heady, rich and earthy. Susan waited as he poured the coffee with a flourish. He raised and lowered the press as he poured, making a foamy rim of aerated coffee in the cup. She sipped at the hot rich brew. She was almost surprised at her honesty when she next spoke. "You are a darling. This is perfect!" drawing out and accenting the last word.

As the waiter basked in her praise she continued in a softer, wistful voice. "You know, every time I'm in Bellington I get this coffee but I've never met the owner? I don't suppose he's still here is he?"

The waiter reveled in her praise and the opportunity to continue his conversation with her. "Actually, the owner is a 'she' and no; she's not staying in the hotel."

"Too bad." Susan mewled. Her affected Southern belle accent added to the pout.

"I have a friend who would love to get involved with a gourmet coffee firm. He's thinking of opening a _very_ few five star restaurants and this coffee is just what he needs to be serving. I don't suppose you heard if the owner's staying in the area? I would love to talk to her about this opportunity."

"No ma'am. I don't know, but I got the impression she was going back to Bellington right away."

He noticed the headwaiter staring at him. The Morriston Inn encouraged attending to the needs of its guests but not becoming involved with them.

Susan noticed his change in demeanor and, in a voice she was sure would carry to the headwaiter's ears said, "Thank you so much. You are so kind to take all this time helping me. You make each thing sound so perfect but, I think I'll have the crème brulee. I just adored the poetic way you described it."

The headwaiter's stare turned into an approving nod.

Susan's waiter, grateful for being rescued from an almost certain lecture, responded with the expected professional enthusiasm. "An excellent choice. It is the chef's specialty."

As he placed the silver dessert spoon in to her right side, the waiter spoke softly so as to not be overheard. "Thank you very much."

Susan held the cell phone to her ear as she sipped her glass of white wine. "I don't have any more than that Will."

All traces of her Southern accent had evaporated. Her tone was flat, neutral and businesslike. "Everyone here seems to think that she did her presentation and left shortly thereafter."

His insistence could be tiring at times. "I'll check the real estate offices tomorrow to see if she looked at any possible store properties. If she did, maybe she also asked about cabins for nightly rental or something."

Susan held the phone away from her ear. Will's voice was getting ever more strident and demanding. "Calm down darling. I'll find her and have her back in time for the press conference. Don't worry."

Her reassurance seemed to have little or no effect on his agitation. "Darling, my phone battery is about to give out on me. It's beeping. I'll call you tomorrow after I........"

She disconnected in mid sentence. _Let him think that the battery died._

The following morning Susan made the rounds of the real estate offices. She followed their plan of discussing possible sites for an office once Will was elected. The promise of an office where people could come and talk to a representative of the Congressman seemed to go over well.

She was careful to ask about properties with coffee shops or cafes nearby so that the staff could spend more time among the 'real people'. In addition to seeking information, she was doing some excellent electioneering for Will. She was sure that the word would spread and he would see very favorable results from this part of the district on election night.

While wooing the voters seemed to be going well, her attempts to get a handle on Callie's whereabouts were not. Susan was growing increasingly frustrated with this seemingly fruitless search. She found herself having to 'gear up' her attitude for each new interview. She learned the location of every existing café, restaurant, hamburger stand, and hole in the wall diner in town but had no news of Callie.

Susan knocked at the door of the last office on her list. Oddly, the sign said 'OPEN' and the agent was visible at the back of the office but the door was locked. The female agent came toward her on what were obviously sore feet. She was well into middle age although she dressed in what Susan was sure she imagined to be a stylish manner. As the woman unlocked the door she smiled at Susan. "

Sorry, I was in the back for a moment. Can't be too careful. Confidential information and all, you know." She ushered Susan into the office.

While she didn't expect to learn any more here than at the other real estate offices, Susan wasn't about to have anyone say she was less than thorough.

"You're right about that!" She sounded just as cheerful as if this were her first office.

Susan introduced herself. "I'm a staffer for Will Sampson who, as you probably know, wants to be your next Congressman."

She went into her story about the satellite office, wanting to be near a café, and so on. The real estate agent listened patiently, making the appropriate 'mmm' and 'aaah' noises at the right times. It was apparent to Susan that the agent was a strong supporter of Will's candidacy. She seemed eager to help identify office spaces that would be near key locations. She also provided a lot of information about where _not_ to put an office. Susan noticed that, whenever the agent nodded or turned her head, her hair didn't move. It remained immobile, frozen in place and time.

_She probably hasn't changed her hairstyle since Nixon was in office._ Susan thought uncharitably.

Although the agent was enthusiastic about helping Will's campaign, it was evident that she had no more information that might help her locate Callie than any of the others did. However at the end of their conversation the agent asked, "Are you up here alone?"

"Yes. Everyone else is busy at campaign headquarters. Why do you ask?" Susan found the question a bit off hand and out of context.

"Oh, it's just that you can't be too careful right now. You know about the jail break that supposedly happened yesterday, right?" Her too heavily mascara lined eyes gazed intently at Susan.

"Jail break? No. I haven't heard anything about it. Who broke out of jail? Some vagrant litterbug?"

The previous evening, Susan had retired to the comfort of the four poster bed in her room without following her usual habit of watching the news. Nor had she deigned to read the local rag this morning. After all, what could a small town paper possibly have in it to interest someone like her?

She was sure that it couldn't be anything too significant. If it had been, someone on Will's staff would have contacted her. Right now, she really didn't have time for some local hysteric's tale of local color.

"Oh no!" The agent stared at her very seriously. "I heard it was a murderer. That's the real reason why I'm keeping the doors locked."

Susan stared at her for a moment. "A murderer?" she repeated stunned.

"Was this on the news? Was it someone local?" she demanded.

"Lands no!" said the woman with the immovable hair. "No, it's supposed to be some rich fella from Seattle. Rumors say he killed his lover and then came up here to hide out. 'Course, 'cause he's rich, the powers that be aren't saying much about him. I guess the Sheriff's really mad at the deputy who let him get away. They're trying to keep things real quiet. Probably think they can get him back and kinda hush up the whole thing."

"Really?" Susan was suddenly very interested in what the agent had to say.

"And do you know this rich fella's name?" She mimicked the agent's folksy manner of speech. The local sheriff was backing Will's opponent. If there was some scandal here, maybe it could be turned to Will's political advantage.

"No, no, everyone is keeping _really_ quiet, if you know what I mean." The agent's voice became very soft. She looked around as if someone else might be secretly listening to their conversation.

"But," she continued after dramatically looking over her shoulder as if she were a character in a stage play, "there's only one rich family that has digs around here."

Susan decided to play along with the drama. Lowering her voice to just above a whisper. "I imagine that, in your line of work, you're in a position to know who that is too, aren't you?"

The woman positively beamed with excitement. "Sure do. The Farmingtons. And if any of them are likely to be a suspect it's that boy Blake. Always was a wild one."

She actually touched the side of her nose like they used to in old movies. "Him and his girlfriends up here, wild parties and such. I'll just bet he's the one."

"Well, this _is_ interesting." Susan said emphatically. "Thank you .....?" she paused, realizing that she had not gotten the agent's name.

"Ruby. Ruby Cartwright." the name shot out of her mouth as fast as she extended her hand.

Susan took the woman's hand noting the garish costume jewelry ring adorning it.

"Ruby. Thank you very much Ruby. I'll be certain to let Mr. Sampson know just how much help you've been. He's blessed to have the support of good people like yourself."

The agent glowed with pride as Susan continued. "He never forgets anyone who helps him. I'm sure that you will be hearing more from us very soon."

Ruby continued to beam with self-satisfaction. She imagined herself becoming a big influence in the community. No longer the lonely divorcee who had spent the last five years in isolation among the locals. She could become a political mover and shaker.

"You tell Mr. Sampson – Will – that I'll do anything I can to help. Before and after he wins the election." Hopefulness radiated in her wide smile.

"I'll be sure to tell him all about our meeting." Susan said in her most politically sincere voice. As she turned to go out the door she smiled back over her shoulder and gave Ruby a friendly wave.

_You pathetic old cow._ she thought behind her veil of affability.
CHAPTER 18

Callie broke the silence of their walk back to the cabin. "Well, since we obviously have a lot of work to do, we are going to need more coffee."

"And......" Blake replied tentatively.

"Aaaaaand," she drew out the simple word. "I don't think I can survive much more of your cowboy coffee. How about we mosey over to the car and I'll dig out a French press and some real coffee?" She was trying to keep things light and friendly.

Rather than responding verbally, Blake took the car keys from his jeans and nonchalantly tossed them to her. Callie caught them as they arced downward. "Good hands." He said.

"Thanks." She made no move toward the car, waiting to see if he would insist on accompanying her.

"You get the makings and I'll try to rinse the 'battery acid' out of the coffee pot. We can still use it to boil the water." He turned and made for the doorway.

She appreciated his firm, masculine buttocks and his easy, powerful stride as he returned to the cabin. Callie gave a small snort of laughter at his reference to his coffee as battery acid again. She tossed the keys playfully into the air and caught them as she turned toward the car.

_Maybe not interested in me romantically but at least we have established a level of trust._ she mused as she walked to where the car was parked in the brush.

She admired how effectively Blake had camouflaged it. Unless you knew right where to look, the dark green of the car blended into the shadows entirely. The lighter tan bottom just looked like sandy soil through the myriad branches and leaves of the surrounding brush.

As she reentered the long-house cabin, she again noticed the firmness of Blake's bottom as it strained against the denim of his jeans. That newly discovered achy feeling of desire stirred in her pelvis. She admired how his back muscles showed through the tightly stretched plaid shirt. His sleeves were rolled up exposing the dark hairs on his powerful forearms. She thought what a delight it would be to explore that hard, oh so masculine body and then she sighed inwardly.

"I've got the press and, we're in luck. I happened to have one of those fancy Japanese grinders with me. The ones that can be either battery operated or can run off the car's power outlet."

She set the press onto the table along with a brown paper coffee bag. As she opened the bag, the rich, heady aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the cabin.

Blake took a deep and appreciative breath. "Okay, maybe your coffee is going to be better than mine." His teasing voice and smile were warmer, more genuine this time.

"Darn right mountain boy!" She smiled back at him.

"Ethiopian Sidamo – Arabica beans, of course – and freshly ground to release all the rich, earthy flavor they possess. It just doesn't get a lot better than that." Callie spoke with a finality that would brook no argument.

"Okay coffee expert. But I just want you to know that my beans were Arabica too. Not freshly ground, unless you count anytime in the past decade as fresh, but they _were_ Arabica. I want at least half credit for knowing to avoid Robusta."

In spite of herself she laughed. "Okay, I'll give you part credit for knowing the difference between Arabica and Robusta – but not half. No one deserves half credit for serving that boiled motor oil."

Blake held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I admit defeat and I bow to your superior technique."

She smiled warmly at him. Peace had been established over coffee. He was as amiable as he was attractive.

Blake poured another cup of coffee for each of them. They had gone back to comparing notes about Trish Martins.

"I'm still confused and more than a little angry that she was messing around with domestic expansion when she knew how critical the Asian project was." He glared at the steaming liquid in his cup as if it were some oracle that could provide him with the missing answers.

"Did you notice any change in her work on the Asian expansion?" Callie probed helpfully.

"No. No I can't say that I did. I know that there were nights when I left and she was still there. Believe me, I'm not one of those decorative managers. I expect a lot from my people but I always lead from the front of the pack. Usually, I'm the last one out of the office." He paused, thinking.

"That sounds like a silent 'but' there."

"Yeah, it is. 'But' I also know that there were lots of mornings when I came in and she was already at her desk. I wonder what she was doing. She never logged a lot of overtime, at least, not more than anyone else working on the project but, now that I think of it, it seems like she was there a whole lot more than the rest of the team."

"Okay, so her work wasn't sloppy or lacking in any way. We need to figure out why she was there all the time." Callie began ticking off points on her fingertips.

"She had no relationship that you know of, so there was no abusive spouse or boyfriend she was trying to avoid. As far as we know, she spent her spare time preparing for the Cast Iron Chef Competition. She doesn't seem to be a gambler because, as far as we know, she neither lived above nor below her income. Obviously not a heavy drinker. You spent too much time around her to not notice." She paused, considering the portrait they had built of Trish.

Blake looked at her admiringly. She had the analytical skills of a planner. She didn't get rattled easily. In a lot of ways she was kind of like Trish, only warmer, more open, and definitely honest.

That comparison with Trish triggered his 'aha' moment. Excitedly, he slapped his empty tin coffee cup down on the table. Gesturing to Callie for patience with his open palm, he said, "Maybe we are going about this the wrong way. We are trying to figure out why she was at work all the time, right? Let's start with an assumption."

He was pacing excitedly now. Callie watched the graceful, muscular strides as he prowled back and forth in front of her. "She wasn't supposed to be working on domestic expansion. She knew that if I found out she was involved in it, I'd be furious. So, if she was doing _that_ behind my back, let's ask ourselves if there were other things as well. Maybe that's why she was there so much."

Callie nodded slowly, pondering his idea. "Okay, but, she had a computer at home right? Why not do whatever it was there? I mean, what's the advantage to doing it at work? Would she have stored the files there?"

Blake answered the last question first, adamantly. "No way! Corporate is really sticky about computer security and usage. People can get personal e-mail but it's strictly limited and _everything_ is monitored. The only files that can be stored on the company servers are work related. No notes to your sister, photos of kids or boyfriends, none of that. If you get caught storing personal data on the company server they really slam you. That goes for executives as well."

Callie mulled over the question of what else might be advantageous about the work environment as opposed to home. "You told me a little about Trish's apartment. How good is your memory for details?"

Blake extended both arms, palms uppermost and gestured around him indicating the long house and its furnishings. "I built all this with no plans, just what I remember seeing in books."

Callie smiled, nodding appreciatively. "Okay but how about for things that aren't an obsession with you?"

Blake made an exasperated expression. Then, hands on his hips, chest thrust out in a mock defiant stance he announced in a theatrically masculine voice, "Try me!"

She couldn't help but laugh at his playfulness. "Okay great he-man of the mountains, I want you to think about the office area of her apartment. You told me she had an older, boxy black computer. What else did you see?"

Blake closed his eyes and began moving his finger as if pointing at things. "Computer there, printer, but you already know about that. Let's see, phone, notepad, pencil cup with pens and such, that's it."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. His deeply intense gaze seemed to bathe her in warmth. "It's like I said before, not much room in there."

Callie paused for a moment, trying to control the sensation of heated breathlessness. She looked down momentarily to recover herself after meeting his eyes. "Pretty good. Now, you said that there was a phone. Modern cordless or older corded?"

"Cordless." There was no hesitation in his answer.

"Okay. Any other boxy things on the desk? Anything with several lights? They would probably have been either green or blue."

"Nope, just what I told you."

"Back to the phone for a minute. You said it was cordless. You've seen these sets that they sell where there's a base unit and extensions, right?"

"Hey, I said technology wasn't my thing, not that I've been under a rock. Yeah, I know the difference between a base unit and an extension charger. What I saw was a base unit."

Callie blushed. "Sorry, didn't mean to be insulting – it's just that it makes a difference."

Blake smiled at her again. She couldn't decide if it was impish or reassuring – or both.

"Anyway, so, it was a base unit. Could you see how many cords connected to it?"

Blake closed his eyes again. His hand repeated the pointing gesture. "One. Two. Three." he intoned. "Grey. Grey. Black; like the color of the base."

He opened his eyes to see Callie staring at him with obvious admiration. "That is a pretty impressive trick you have there Blake Farmington. Do you have a photographic memory?"

"Eidetic memory, to be precise." He teased her with the medical term. Blake felt an immense relief that they had re-established their earlier camaraderie. He'd been so afraid that he had ruined everything when he so spontaneously kissed Callie earlier.

"Oooh! _Very impressive_." She teased back. Reverting to a more serious vein, she continued, "But I believe I can answer the question of why she probably wasn't doing whatever it was at home."

Blake stared at her for a moment, reveling in smile on her face. It was the smile of triumph, victory, and it reached deep inside her emerald green eyes. "Because.......?"

"Well, I know that it's probably hard to believe in today's world but I bet that she had a dial-up connection. Super slow for anything like the modern Internet. She could probably get text files and some e-mail fairly easily but anything like multimedia would take literally hours if not days to download at dial-up speed." She waited for Blake to say something.

He didn't.

"Don't you see? If she was doing Internet research, she needed a faster connection. I'll bet that your corporate connection is close to if not a T1. Super fast, super easy."

Blake nodded absently. "Makes sense. So, she does all her research on the company's fast connection. Then what does she do? Take handwritten notes? We know that she couldn't have stored them on the work computer. Assuming that she was doing something underhanded, she would be at too great a risk for discovery."

It was then that he saw where Callie was going with her information. "Could she have been storing it on the stick thingie, I mean, the thumb drive?" His expression indicated that he thought he was on the right track but that he also worried that he hadn't grasped the full implications of the information.

"Very good! You remembered 'thumb drive'. But no, I don't think she would store important things on there. Too great a risk of losing it. And besides, they are pretty easily damaged. No one keeps information on them long term. They are more the quick and dirty kind of storage until you can get it to a better, more secure location."

Callie mulled over what he had told her about Farmington's corporate computer policies. Then her own 'aha' moment occurred.

"Cloud storage. She used cloud storage!"

Blake looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"The cloud. It's a term used for secure storage on the Internet. The thumb drive was probably just a ruse or for something unrelated. She needed secure storage and the cloud is perfect because data isn't stored in just one place, it's stored in many places all at once. Files are broken up into partial packets and then the packets are stored randomly on several virtual servers. Unless you have the right pass codes, none of it can be accessed. You have to have the key in order to make all the pieces fit together."

Blake stared at her appreciatively. She was so bright, and she seemed to glow with an inner light when she got excited. "So, without the key, it would be like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without the picture to guide you?"

"Exactly!" Now Callie was on her feet as well. She paced animatedly, gesturing to illustrate her point.

"Well, exactly in one way but it's also worse. Imagine trying to put the puzzle together without the picture or the edge pieces. Then imagine that all the puzzle pieces stored in different buildings. It would be impossible."

She suddenly became very quiet as her ebullience gave way to dejection. "Impossible is the right word too. Without the key we have a great theory but no way of testing it."

She sighed and picked up the French press. Only the dregs remained. "Out of luck and out of coffee. Well, at least we can make more coffee." she said with mock brightness.

"I'll put on more water." Blake said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. A thrill of heat ran through him. It raced from his palm into his chest like liquid fire.

"I think a few minutes break might help. Let's go outside and stretch our legs while the water boils. Maybe it'll help clear the cobwebs." _And help me get a grip on myself._ he thought.

They walked around the palisade wall and Blake pointed out various natural features to her. Callie learned about the various wild flowers that were there, the difference between a snake's hole and a vole's, and several other things she never knew about. Blake was in his element and his knowledge of the flora and fauna was impressive. She found herself relaxing and enjoying the rich, deep sound of his voice as it thrummed through her. It was as warm as the sunshine and as refreshing as the breeze.

As they stepped across the threshold to the cabin, the coffee pot was disgorging gouts of steam. Callie scraped the grounds into an old coffee can that Blake used for compost. Then she washed out the press with hot water – making sure to pump the handle a few times to clear the screen – and then make another press pot of coffee.

Blake looked at his cup admiringly, toasting her with the warm, rich brew. "Well, it may not be authentic but I think I'm going to have to make some changes to the coffee served up here."

Chuckling he added, "One must change with the times."

Callie beamed at him. "Such a concession to wring from you. I'd better be careful; I could end up dragging you, kicking and screaming of course, into the early twentieth century."

Blake feigned horror. He struck a pose worthy of a silent film star. "Never! You devil woman!"

They laughed and sipped at the fresh coffee.

"I wonder if Trish kept her passwords and such in her phone. That would explain why someone would remove the SIM card." she mused.

"I don't follow." Blake looked at her inquiringly.

"I was just thinking out loud." she said dismissively.

"Lots of people keep data on their cell phones. Not only phone numbers but e-mail addresses, street addresses, lots of stuff. Modern phones are really mini computers and some of them can even directly interface with larger computers. Plus, they make dandy paperweights." she poked fun at him.

"It's just that, if she were using the cloud for storage, she might have kept her pass code information on the phone. Although, if she lost it or the phone was damaged, she would lose all that information." She began to chew thoughtfully on her lower lip.

Blake was transfixed by this nervous gesture of hers. He found it disturbingly attractive and more than a little sexy. He could feel the faint tingle of excitement low down in his body. He looked out the open doorway to distract himself and try to regain control of his emotions. This woman affected him as no other had.

He was happy just being in her presence. No pressure, no expectations. Just seeing her, smelling the warmth of her, that was enough to make him simultaneously contented and excited.

"I don't think she would have done that." he said flatly. The struggle to not reach out and softly touch Callie was almost overwhelming. He wanted to stroke her cheek; bury his nose in her intoxicatingly thick, luxurious auburn hair; gaze deeply and long into those wondrous, laughing eyes.

Callie looked at him, wondering why he suddenly seemed so cold and distant. He was staring at her with a closed, shuttered look. "Why do you say that?"

"Trish dropped her phone in a puddle about a year ago." He was regaining control over his imagination.

"She was on it with a contact in Hong Kong. It had been raining and she was trying to juggle some files, her purse, you know, multitasking at its most basic. Anyway, the phone slipped from between her ear and her shoulder, bounced off the door frame and right into a puddle. She was fit to be tied. I swear the air turned blue for a block around."

Callie waited for him to continue, making a 'go on' motion with her hand.

"Anyway, when she calmed down, we tried to dry the phone out. But, no soap. It wouldn't start up again." He stopped abruptly. A look of revelation sprang onto his face. In mere moments it was enhanced by a beaming grin of self congratulations.

"SIM card!" The words sprang from him, excitedly, joyously, almost alive.

"I remember now, she said that she had to re-enter all the phone numbers by hand because she had an older phone and there was no _SIM card_." He emphasized the words again, reveling in his newfound understanding of them.

After a monetary pause for quiet self congratulation, Blake continued. "I remember she had to reconstruct her entire phone book, that's the right term, isn't it?" He looked at Callie appealingly.

"Yep. That's the right term." she replied warmly. He really seemed to be trying to connect with her, even if only as a friend.

"Yeah, well, she had to call people for some of the numbers, get files and look up others, it was a real pain. She swore that she would never go through that again. She said that she would always have a written backup in a safe place."

"Okay, so we assume that Trish is doing something behind your back. She's doing it at work because there she has access to a fast connection. We assume that she's storing the results of whatever she is doing in the cloud, and now, we assume that she has a written backup of the access codes that will unlock all this somewhere in a 'safe' place."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Is it just me or are we really reaching here?"

Blake looked at her, thought a moment, and shrugged. "We have to start somewhere. Why not fantasy land? After all, it's closer than any amusement park and the lines are a whole lot shorter!"

Callie began to laugh. She laughed so hard her sides ached. She couldn't breathe. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Blake, laughing with her, couldn't help but think how beautiful she was when she laughed.

Choking, sobbing with laughter she finally managed to say, "Well, never let it be said that you don't have a sense of humor."

She also thought, _This is a remarkable man. He is facing a murder charge, escapes from jail, and can still laugh at his circumstances_. Then it struck her, she didn't list 'kidnapping me' among his current woes.

Minutes passed before they could compose themselves sufficiently to continue. Blake wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Seriously, we don't have anywhere else to start. We need to eliminate every possibility that we can. Besides, we may just be smart enough to get lucky and hit it on the first try. Not likely, I'll grant you but...." He let the words trail off into oblivion.

"Okay fantasy man," She paused, embarrassed, as the double entendre sank in. "Let's assume that she did keep a hard copy. Where would she keep it? Home, a bank box, where?"

She thought about it for a while as did Blake.

Callie mused aloud. "I know I have secret hiding places for things I want to keep private. I don't want them so far away as a bank box but I don't want them hanging around where just anyone could stumble across them either."

"So where would you hide something like that?" Blake questioningly cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Without being too specific, I would hide it where I knew it wouldn't be likely to be found and where I could be pretty sure it was well guarded. Like somewhere at work maybe?"

"Like a locker or something?"

Callie thought for a moment before answering. "Probably not a locker. They are notorious for being easily opened. Kids learn how to break into them in junior high. Not a desk either. Too many people might have access or at least have a reason for going into it. You know, borrowing a pen, getting paperclips, that sort of thing."

Blake got a faraway look for a moment and then shook his head.

Callie studied the intense look on his face. The skin under his left eye crinkled as he half- squinted it. She was sure he was trying to recover a memory. "What? You looked like you remembered something."

He shook his head again. "Well, until you nixed it, I was thinking it _might_ have been her desk at work."

"Forget what I said for a minute. Why did you think it might be her desk?"

"I just remembered something that happened a long time ago. It was late in the afternoon. Trish had stayed on to finish a letter for me. I left for the evening but, after I got to my car, I remembered that I had left some papers I needed to go over on my desk. I went back upstairs and, when I turned the corner to our suite, I found her putting a drawer back into her desk. She made some excuse about pulling it out too far and it falling onto the floor. I said that she should call maintenance and have them fix it. She said it was already done and, when I suggested that she still have maintenance look at it, she said something like 'It's really okay. You know we girls have our little secrets.' I thought she was talking about some jury-rigged repair she had done. But, I wonder......."

Callie mulled over what Blake had just told her. "It seems weird that she would be so reluctant to have maintenance look at a desk drawer. And what was that comment about having secrets about? Could she have hidden something important in her desk? Can you use that memory of yours to tell me which drawer it was?"

Blake closed his eyes again. His large right hand reached out for the desk he was seeing in his mind's eye. It paused then moved downward before closing on an invisible drawer pull. "It was.......top.....no, the middle right hand drawer."

He opened his eyes and looked at Callie. "The desk has two drawers on the left. One regular, one file folder sized. The right hand side has three regular drawers. Of course, there is the usual lap drawer."

"I've seen desks with that kind of arrangement before. The middle drawer is usually reserved for things like makeup, candy, things you want easily at hand but that can be slid out of view quickly as well."

Blake sat down heavily on the stool nearest the hearth. "We're assuming that she kept a hard copy of her passwords and such, right?"

Callie nodded. "It makes sense to assume that from what you said."

"So, could she have put them in that drawer? I mean, could they look like something different? Something that anyone else would just overlook?"

"I suppose so but I still think the risk would be too great. I mean, think about it. Let's assume she kept, I don't know, candies or tissues in there. If she was away on break or in the restroom, anyone could have opened the drawer and seen what was in there. The killer could have even gone through it."

Callie shuddered at the memory of Trish's lifeless body bathed in the harsh neon light of the office. For a moment she was back there with the terrible coppery smell of blood filling her nostrils.

Blake saw a fleeting expression of alarm cross her face.

Then Callie's nervous grimace gave way to a genuine smile, one of relief.

Blake noticed the transformation. "Have another bright insight?"

"Of sorts. I just said 'the killer probably went through it' and I didn't even wonder if it might have been you. It's just nice to have that sorted out in my mind." Her tone was one of genuine relief and caring.

"Thanks." His reply was terse, almost disappointed. He was aware that she had some lingering reasons to doubt him but somehow, it hurt that she was still not sure of him.

Callie shunted aside the flash of concern that she had wounded him. She had meant it as a compliment. If he couldn't see that, he could bloody well go to the devil!

Callie pushed ahead with her earlier thought. "What I mean is, there had to be a way to guarantee that someone wouldn't stumble across the passwords and steal them. Sure, she could take them with her every time she left and then put them back but somebody would surely notice such bizarre behavior. No, it's just too risky to keep something like that in a drawer."

She sat quietly for a moment and then smiled again.

" _Now_ what have you decided about me?" Blake asked sarcastically.

"It's not all about you. Have you always had this monumental ego?" She snapped back at him.

When he next spoke his voice was more conciliatory. "Sorry. It's just that I thought we had the whole 'I'm not the killer, I'm the guy who was framed' issue settled."

"We do. Blake, you have to admit, we didn't exactly get off on the best footing. Don't get me wrong, you're an interesting guy," _and damned sexy too_ she thought "but making me an accessory after the fact to a murder is not really a sound basis for a trusting relationship." Her eyebrows arched ironically.

"I mean, never mind that you didn't kill Trish. _I'm_ still able to be charged. Even if we can get you out of this mess, I'm still in a world of trouble. Trouble I don't need right now."

He hadn't thought of it that way. By helping him, Callie had put herself at risk. "Well, you see, I don't get a chance to meet all that many really interesting women. Usually it's just air headed debutantes and such. So, when I meet someone really interesting who knows how to make great coffee, I have to have a way of keeping in touch with her, even if it's through her lawyer. Once _I'm_ out of trouble that is."

He smiled at her and extended his hand for her to shake it. "Peace?"

She smiled back, taking his hand. "Peace."

Blake was reluctant to let go. His large warm hand engulfed her delicate fingers and palm. Warmth suffused him and he wanted ever so desperately to whisk her into his arms. To hold her. To love her. To make love to her.

Callie slowly, unwillingly withdrew her hand from his. His touch was so distracting. No man had ever been able to make her forget what she was thinking, what she was saying by merely touching her. She felt lost in the sensation of his hand possessing hers.

"Before I made an ass of myself, you looked like you had an idea. What was it?" There was warmth in his voice as well as his hand.

"Hmm? She dragged her attention back to the issue of Trish and her hidden files. Oh, right! I was just thinking, it might not be safe to keep something _in_ a drawer, but _on_ a drawer is another thing entirely."

Blake looked at her uncomprehendingly. "On a drawer? Like written on it?"

"No, although I suspect you could do that but it seems a little inconvenient. No, what I was thinking is a bit cleverer than that. What if her passwords were on a piece of paper _taped_ to the drawer?"

Blake nodded. "Okay, but how?"

Callie gestured to him with her outstretched palm. "Okay, imagine this. You take a pouch or envelope, something that will hold a folded sheet of paper or two. You tape that to the _back_ of the drawer. If someone opens the drawer, they don't see it because the envelope isn't tall enough to be seen over the edge. If they open the drawers above or below they still don't see it because there is no clear line of sight. If the middle drawer is closed, the envelope is against the inside panel of the desk. If it's open, the drawer above or below is obscuring it from view. But, the document is readily accessible if you need it. Everyone looks in drawers, not behind them." She made another gesture that clearly said, 'There you go.'

Blake stared at her in wonderment. "That's brilliant. Simply brilliant. I never would have thought of that. You're a genius."

"Thank you for noticing but I can't take credit for the idea. My Uncle Mac once told me a story about getting even with a particularly obnoxious supervisor."

"Okay, I'm intrigued. What happened?"

"Well, it seems that this guy was giving a hard time to all the pilots. No matter what they did, it was never good enough. Finally, they got fed up. One day, while he was out at lunch, they taped a pair of particularly aromatic gym socks to the back of his middle drawer. Uncle Mac used to say that duct tape would stick to anything if it could stick to those smelly socks. Anyway, when the drawers were closed, no smell. But if he opened the drawer, it was like the bottom of a gym locker. It drove him crazy for days until he finally took all the drawers out of the desk."

Blake was doubled over with laughter. As he wiped away the tears from his eyes he managed to choke out, "Remind me to never really irritate you."

Callie cast him a smoldering look. "Well, it's good that you recognize that I'm not a woman to be trifled with."

Blake looked deeply into her eyes. Was she saying 'come ahead' or 'watch your step'?

He found himself on unsure ground, not wanting to make a misstep.

"I would never trifle with you Callie." He spoke softly but firmly, wanting to the words to reflect the depth of his sincerity.

If she was warning him off, she could be reassured that he would try to respect that, in spite of the raging longing for her that was consuming him. If she was seeking reassurance, he wanted her to know that he would not treat her as an object but rather as a cherished part of himself; never to be taken for granted.

The tension between them lasted moments until Callie broke the link. "So we're adding to our assumptions then? We've decided that Trish probably hid the information about her cloud storage sites on her drawer, right?"

Blake nodded his agreement. "Makes sense. But how do we find out? The building is open to the public, but the executive levels require buzzing in or a card key. I sure can't go back there. The cops would love that!"

Callie smiled. "You wouldn't happen to have your card key with you, would you?"

Blake removed his wallet from his pocket and produced a white card slightly larger and thicker than a credit card. "Sure, but what good is it going to do us? If anyone uses it, security is going to alert the cops. The place will be crawling before there's a chance of searching her desk."

As she took the card from him, she waved it in the air. "Ever wonder why people have such a stroke when these things get lost?"

Callie could tell he didn't by the questioning cock of his eyebrow and the faint hint of a shrug from those broad powerful shoulders. Pulling herself out of her momentary reverie she continued. "It's because, no matter how secure they are, they can be hacked. Hacked means a chance to get around the security. The only people who have a nearly hack proof system are the military. They use biometrics and even electrical aura fields."

"But corporations just program and reprogram the cards. If you know the right people, it can be done." She smiled a predatory smile at him.

"Let me guess, you know the right people?" he asked.

"Oh yeah! I know the right people."

_Liz is going to love this one!_ she thought to herself.
CHAPTER 19

"I know, but it should be on the news by now. It's not the kind of thing that can stay hushed up for long, not with the way that those piranhas go after dirt." All traces of Susan's Southern accent were gone. There was no need for seduction now. This was business.

"Okay, I'll take care of it. Don't worry; I'll be my usual discrete self when leaking this. What about this disappearing act that Callie has done?" She made a sharp intake of breath as if giving her sudden idea enough air to catch fire. "You don't suppose that she's running away do you? I mean, the proposal did kind of come out of the blue."

She listened to his response. His voice was raised and he was obviously not happy with what she had just said.

"Calm down darling, I just think we need to look at all the possibilities. If she's not there for the press conference we have to do something."

Susan mulled over the possibilities. What would they do if Callie didn't appear next to Will on the podium at the press conference? They had been hinting at a major news release for weeks. The latest 'leaks from reliable sources close to the campaign' had started to hint at an engagement.

Without Callie, Will was going to have to do some major damage control. The opposition would make a field day out of it. 'If he can't woo one woman successfully, how is he going to woo voters and policy makers?' That kind of argument would cost untold votes.

"I don't suppose that, if she doesn't turn up we could somehow spin this to suggest that Farmington has kidnapped her, or is holding her hostage, could we?"

There was another explosion of angry rhetoric on the other end. Susan waited out the tirade and then calmly said, "I'm not suggesting we do anything right now. There's no need to be precipitous. I just think we should think about some options. If we don't, we could be caught flat footed and that is not going to do _anyone_ any good. We all have a lot riding on the outcome of this election and I for one don't want to leave anything to chance just because someone might be angry."

That had a calming effect on the conversation. She continued, "Listen, let's get a little discrete help looking for Callie. They can work behind the scenes and they are always low profile."

She replied to the question that interrupted her train of thought. "Yes, that's who I'm thinking of. They have the resources to dig around and the experience to remain well in the shadows. If they can turn her up or if they can find whatever rock Farmington is hiding under, we can release the information through the usual channels."

After a few more instructions she said, "Fine. I'll take care of this right after I leak the jail break. You just worry about campaign issues. After all, I've never let you down yet; have I?"

She lowered the cell phone to the tabletop with deliberate slowness. She wanted to slam it down so hard that it was imbedded in the wood of the faux side table. _Men!_ she screamed inside her head. _Their testosterone level goes up in a crisis but, let a woman suggest something direct to solve the problem, they start backpedaling on her._

After taking a moment to calm down, Susan picked up the phone again and scrolled through the settings to the caller ID feature. She verified that the feature was turned off so that her call would remain anonymous. Returning to her phone book, she pushed the speed dial.

"Yardley." He always answered the phone with the same bored, laconic voice that seemed to ask, _'Don't you know I'm busy?'_

He pretty much shouted over the constant noise in the news room. Maybe they had gotten rid of typewriters in favor of word processors but people still talked too damned loud. Plus there were the constant multichannel feeds on the oversized monitors scattered about the room. National, international, local – all of them filled with talking airheads who read the copy that hard working guys like him developed and wrote for them.

_It's her."_ Jack Yardley thought, suddenly recognizing the sultry Southern voice on the line. He sat up a little straighter, brushed the crumbs from the front of his shirt and sucked in his 'comfortably overweight' waistline. Forget that she couldn't see him on the phone. Forget that, if she could, she probably wouldn't give him a second glance.

"Weeeeelllllll hello!" His voice conveyed undivided attention. "Long time no hear. How are things in the wide world?"

Yardley didn't know who this woman was but her voice was like thick, warm honey. She purred with that soft Southern accent and he couldn't help but imagine how it would be to hear it whispering in his ear. Sure, he knew the accent was a fake but it still got to him.

More importantly, this woman gave him inside dirt that always made his editor drool. It was just short of being complete but always reliable. Actually, that worked best because it protected him from having to defend or worse, explain who his source was. She gave him just enough information to know where to start digging and usually, he struck pay dirt very quickly.

"Sure, I heard about the murder of that gal at Farmington's." Answering her next question he said, "Naw, the cops are staying really quiet about it."

She asked another question to which he replied, "Nope, they still aren't talking about a suspect. Like I said, real quiet. Why?" He liked the way she teased him with the information. It made it more fun, kind of like she was flirting, playing hard-to-get.

"Really?" he said in response to her statement. "In Morriston? No, I didn't hear about that." He thought about who he knew at the Sheriff's department that he could wheedle more information out of.

Then she said something else, something that really got him excited.

"You don't say! And they talked to him when? Yesterday? And now no one can find him. Say! That is a tasty tidbit." So Blake Farmington had paid a little visit to the Sheriff's office for a chat and now he was missing. _That's going to raise a few eyebrows!_ he thought.

"Do they think he's a suspect?" he asked the sultry, flirting voice on the other end of the line.

He probed a little further in response to her answer. "Huh. Gotta say that it doesn't look too good for the boy, does it? Any idea why they are hushing things up?"

After she answered he said, "Yeah! Money talks alright. And you're also right about the Farmington's being politically and socially connected to the Sheriff. Wouldn't do to have him backing Granger against Sampson and then have a scandal arise before the election. Especially one involving such a large backer. Plus, it kinda flies in the face of Farmingtons' image of being a goodie two shoes company, doesn't it?"

He loved it when she laughed at his jokes. The sound was like glass wind chimes in a soft breeze. Sparkling sunshine. "Thanks honey." he said with genuine gratitude and excitement.

"Maybe someday we can finally meet for that drink." He knew she would never agree to meet him. Moreover, he knew that he really didn't want to meet her. It would never do to lose a source this good. _And,_ he thought, _what if she doesn't look as hot as I imagine her? It'd blow a perfectly great fantasy._

The line went dead and Yardley went to work.
CHAPTER 20

Liz immediately recognized the handwriting on the small padded manila colored envelope. She had seen Callie's writing untold times on notes, schedules, cards, and more. There was no doubt that it was from her. Liz's curiosity peaked when she looked at the postmark. It was not from anywhere she recognized.

Tucking the envelope into the folded magazine that made the shell of her 'mail taco', Liz headed for the stairwell. She took the stairs deliberately. Her current obsession with Mexican food had begun to worry her. She had never been a small girl so she had always had to work hard to hold at what she thought was an acceptably curvaceous figure. Her figure resembled the voluptuous stars of the forties and fifties but she kept it hidden under loose, baggy clothes.

After entering her second floor apartment, she dropped her purse by the table next to the door and took the mail over to the desk. Liz didn't really have an apartment. It was more of a computer room and office with attached sleeping, cooking and sanitary facilities. What would have been the living room and dining area were filled with folding tables. Those were littered with a dazzling array of electronic equipment. At night, it looked like some kind of alien skyline with all the tiny green, amber, red and blue LED lights flickering and shining in the darkness.

Removing the envelope she had received from Callie, she threw the rest of the mail into a cardboard shipping container that now doubled as her 'in box.' Really it was more a holding area where things sat until they were either consigned to the recycling bin in the basement or the crosscut shredder across the room.

"Let's see where you are from." She spoke speculatively to the envelope.

The question was purely rhetorical. Liz and Callie never pried into each other's business. It was one of the things that preserved their friendship. That and the fact that whatever was shared stayed strictly confidential. Out of idle curiosity, Liz sat down at one of the laptops and pulled up a map reference page. She typed in the town name and got a result. It was a small place; probably no more than a wide spot in the middle of the road about sixty miles from the Tri-Cities.

"Now what are you doing there?" she asked the mute tan sleeve as she tore open the gummed flap. She upended the envelope and out slipped a key card. Inside the envelope was a brief note from Callie. She read it to herself.

' _Can you use this to establish a bogus ID for entry? Has to be woman from out of State office. Keep this to yourself. Trust no one. Will contact you about pick up._

Love, C'

Liz rummaged around in one of several large capacity plastic storage bins. This one was crammed with bubble wrapped components, peripherals and such. Each was carefully labeled and sealed from dust and impact. Finding the piece she was looking for, she connected it to one of the larger desktop computers on the far side of the room. It was a 'made from scratch' key card reader. One of her hacker friends had a thing about building esoteric components and odd computers. He had once built a 'desktop' that fit inside a kid's lunchbox. Since he was gay and the idea was really inspired, she always chuckled at the cartoon character on the one time little girl's lunchbox.

After a few hours, Liz had a working model for the profile that she wanted. The coding had been cracked by another friend of hers that was always happy to mess with corporate security systems. He collected security system coding like some people collect stamps. Each one was carefully cataloged, filed and lovingly stored for future mayhem.

"Now, to test you." Liz said to the screen. She began the process of worming her way past the security features of the Farmington's network. Their security was good and she hit a few traps but she avoided any back tracing. On the third try, she got into the mainframe and began to rummage for the personnel files.

Liz had once been described as a 'bull pup' by a friend from Britain. They had met when he was studying at UW and she had been working at another coffee stand. She didn't believe that he was calling her a dog; far from it, judging by the way his hands always seemed to accidentally brush against her breasts or buttocks. She was pretty sure that it was never his upper lip that was stiff. Rather, he was referring to her tenacity. Once she got her teeth into a project, she wouldn't let go until she had mastered it.

Within a few hours of receiving the note from Callie, Liz had put together a new profile and uploaded it to the key card.

The whirring buzz from the card reader/ writer erased Blake's information in favor of the false identity she had created for Callie. _No way around that._ she thought.

She never paused to wonder how Callie just happened to end up with the key card for the heir to Farmington's Fabulous Pastries. Nor did she want to know why Callie wanted a bogus ID to get into their offices. One thing was sure, with the profile Liz had constructed, she could pretty much do anything short of selling the company. At least, as long as she didn't get caught.

She looked at the time display on her computer.

"Shit!" she said to the monitor. Barry would be there to pick her up in less than two hours.

She backed out of the programs she had been using, checked her security settings, and stuffed the keycard into an old buttermilk carton. She pushed what appeared to be waste paper into the pour spout of the cardboard carton and set it atop the overflowing recyclables can in the kitchen.
CHAPTER 21

The streets of friendly little Morriston were clogged with news vans, cars, satellite trucks and a host of other vehicles. Residents couldn't walk ten feet without tripping over some kind of news-person. The lines at the local market were jammed with bottled-water-buying, cell-phone-talking, city dwellers.

Things were particularly bad near the sheriff's substation office. There was a veritable siege happening as cameras were set up and crews readied. The Sheriff himself was planning to hold the press conference. It had been made clear that he would read a statement and take a 'limited' number of questions. Someone was trying to do serious damage control and the reporters could smell the blood in the water.

Outside of town at a rest area on the road leading away from Seattle, Susan Fields met the two specialists she had arranged for. Both men sat inside the dark sedan with tinted windows. They were dressed in nondescript dark clothing, heads closely shaved, and wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses.

Susan passed over two packets. Each contained photos of Callie Adams and Blake Farmington. There were also two burn phones and a thick bundle of used twenty dollar bills for expenses in each. Rounding out the packages were lists of locations and possible contacts for Callie and Blake.

"The phones are paid for 30 days. You won't need them longer than that. If the operation terminates early, destroy them in the usual way."

She wondered idly how many cell phones littered the floor of the Puget Sound. Take a ferry, lose a phone. Happens all the time.

"The money is all clean. No sequential bills and all of them are used." she continued.

"Right now, the objective is to locate the targets. We want the man kept under surveillance and the woman taken into custody. Do not, I repeat _do not_ harm her in any way. The client would be very unhappy if she were to be delivered with any scratches or dents."

_Not that the uppity little bitch couldn't do with a bit of disciplining._ she thought.

"Use your discretion and use as many teams as you need. But _all_ information funnels through you. Below you, this operation runs in a vacuum, got it? If you need anything else, one of _you_ contacts _me."_ There was a long silence as the men sifted through the contents of the envelopes.

"Any questions?"

Both men looked up from inventorying the envelopes. Neither spoke. They both shook their heads 'no' in unison. The instructions were clear and they knew from experience how to carry it out.

After a moment, Susan concluded their meeting. "Fine. Contact through the usual means. I'll expect a report in twenty-four hours."

Without waiting for a response, she put her car in gear and drove out of the rest area. To avoid Morriston and the possibility of being seen by the press, she headed east. She faced a long drive back to Seattle. Almost three times farther than the direct route, but at least she would avoid any accidental interest by the press. She resisted the temptation to see if the other car had left the rest area.

"Plausible deniability." She reminded herself aloud.
CHAPTER 22

The text arrived just after Steve finished playing his second set. Liz and Barry were outside getting a breath of air after the close atmosphere in the tiny café where Steve was playing. She had her phone on mute but she felt the vibration in her pocket. Unlike most women, Liz had cultivated the habit of keeping her phone in her front pocket. With all the data in it, she wasn't about to have someone snatch it from her.

'P-R-Mc-P-128-3' was the message. Liz erased the message and then flipped it playfully in the palm of her hand.

Barry noticed that her expression suddenly became serious. A barely audible "Right." escaped Liz's lips.

"Everything alright?" He feared that their evening was about to be cut short.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Fine." Liz smiled broadly at him. She could see the uncertainty play across his face. It was a sweet face that fitted Barry's sweet nature. She was glad that they had come to the café to hear Steve play. It was kind of neutral ground. She wanted to know Barry better but he was shy and skittish. Neutral ground made a good starting place.

She reached up and stroked his cheek softly. Her fingers lingered on the faint stubble on his chin. "Really, everything is fine. Just a reminder of a meeting with a client tomorrow."

Her hand fell from his chin to his forearm. She gave it a light, reassuring pat before slipping her hand into his. Their fingers interlocked and a broadening smile replaced the look of vague worry on Barry's face.

He adjusted his wire rimmed glasses with his free hand. "Great!"

Liz gave Barry's hand a gentle but lingering squeeze. "Second set is about to begin. Let's go back inside. And, if I let you buy me another glass of wine, you have to promise to not take advantage of me."

Barry looked shocked for a moment. "I'd .... I'd ...... never ......." He was stammering and he couldn't help himself.

Liz gave him an encouragingly suggestive smile. "Maybe you ought to think about it before you answer."

She linked her arm in his and tugged him gently toward the door. Her hip rubbed against his as they walked back inside. Barry was aware of growing warmth inside him which wanted to wash away his uncertain shyness.

_It's turning out to be a better evening than I dared hope for_. he thought as he glanced at Liz. She was smiling warmly at him as she gently bumped his shoulder with her head. _Definitely better_.

Fortunately, Farmington's had an office in Dayton, Ohio. Liz knew that Callie had visited there several times with her Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac. Mac was a flier through and through. He had taken Callie to the Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base several times when she was little. She had told Liz about the visits and how excited Mac had been to share his love of flying with her.

Callie's green all wheel drive wagon pulled into the lot and parked three slots down from where Liz was waiting in her car. She waited and Callie came up to her window, for all appearances another commuter's spouse asking about the arrival of the next bus. They play acted the roles of bored housewives and even treated any observer to a laugh or two. Chatting casually, Callie leaned her hands carelessly on the window frame of the pickup's driver's side door.

Liz lowered the sun visor and flipped up the vanity mirror cover. Doing so, she palmed the key card. She pretended to primp in the mirror for a second or two before putting the visor back up. She slipped the card into Callie's hand. Callie waited, leaning on the window frame for several seconds before standing up and putting her hand into her pocket.

The card fell free into the large pocket on the windbreaker and, in its place, out came a mobile phone. Callie pretended to answer it and then, looking ruefully at Liz, announced in a voice just a little too loud, "He's got a ride home with a buddy. Nice of him to let me know _after_ I dropped the kids at my mother's!"

Callie drove away, waving nonchalantly at Liz. Liz waited another ten minutes, sipping and watching before she too left the park-and-ride lot. No one noticed them. No one followed. The handoff went smoothly.

As Callie left the park-and-ride she was still fuming about the argument she had had with Blake last night. His 'I'm the man, I should do the tough stuff.' attitude made her furious. They had gone over it before she sent the key card to Liz. It made more sense for her to impersonate someone from out of town than for him to try and sneak into the offices.

His friendly, 'get to know the people who work with you attitude' made him known by everyone from the midnight shift janitor to the board of directors. The likelihood that Blake Farmington could be in the offices unnoticed was about as likely as an elephant going unseen on an elementary school playground.

_Still,_ _his arguments for going himself seemed to be more for her safety than anything else_. He had gone over the plan so many times that she was sick of it. This morning he couldn't resist going over it again. Then there was that whole lecture on 'backtracking and checking your trail' as he put it. Who was going to notice another corporate executive in a herd of them? As she was leaving, he took her upper arm firmly but gently. The thrill of his touch lanced through her.

"Be careful, okay?" The worried look in his eyes matched the genuine concern she heard rumbling in his deep voice.

He didn't know how right he was with that advice. The _real_ danger was that she might surrender to her mounting passion for him. But, could he be trusted? Was this simply the desire for physical comfort? Once this was over, wouldn't he return to his privileged life and forget all about her? How could she set herself up for such heartbreak? And still...... she yearned for a closer, more intimate knowledge of this attractive, incongruous man.

Then, he had kissed her, not a passionate kiss like before but one that lingered like sunlit honey on her lips.

He gently, reluctantly, unwillingly pulled back and smiled. "For luck." His hair was a glowing halo lit by the rising sun behind him.

She kissed him back, lingering a moment less than he had. "Luck."

Callie caught herself smiling at the memory of their parting.

"This will never do Calista Ann." she scolded herself aloud. There was too much to do, too many things that could go wrong. She needed a quiet place to sit and study the personal details jotted on the paper surrounding the bogus key card. If she was challenged by anyone at the Farmington's headquarters, she would need them to bluff her way out. Without a clear, comfortable back story she could easily end up in jail.
CHAPTER 23

"They're ready Sheriff." The public information deputy made it sound more like a firing squad was waiting instead of a group of reporters.

Sheriff Harold Newsom checked his image one last time in the mirror before stepping outside the front door of the Morriston Substation. He had been able to avoid the press on his way in because his driver whisked him through the security gate behind the building. But now, the moment had arrived.

As he stepped through the door he was assaulted by the lights and the cacophony of questions, all shouted at the same time. Sheriff Newsom stepped to the podium, wearing his best 'serious law enforcement' face. He lifted both hands making a gesture for silence. Once the crowd of reporters had quieted down, he began to read from a prepared statement.

"The Slocomb County Sheriff's Office, in conjunction with Bellevue City police are seeking the whereabouts of one Blake Edward Farmington. Mr. Farmington is a person of interest and is sought for questioning in the death of Patricia Martins on the twenty-eighth of this month. For your safety and the safety of the public, if you see Mr. Farmington or if you have any information about his whereabouts, we ask that you contact the Sheriff's Office or the Bellevue Police. Do not, I repeat, do not approach Mr. Farmington on your own."

The meager statement unleashed a thunderstorm of questions as the reporters all shouted at the same time.

The Sheriff again gestured for calm. "I have heard a lot of you asking if Mr. Farmington is a suspect. I can tell you that, at this time, he is only being sought for questioning."

From the back of the crowd, a disheveled man with a baritone voice could be heard to shout his provocative question. "What about the escape?"

All eyes turned toward Jack Yardley as a hush fell over the assembly.

The Sheriff, put on his best poker face and answered with his own question. "What escape is that supposed to be?"

Yardley's face betrayed none of his jubilation at the Sheriff's having acknowledged his question. "The escape of Blake Farmington from this very substation on Tuesday."

The other reporters exploded in a new flurry of questions. Some were directed to the Sheriff, others to Yardley himself. There was general mayhem. The Sheriff's increasingly strident voice could be heard calling for quiet over the din.

Again, the crowd subsided and the Sheriff was careful to keep his voice level and not betray any of his anger or anxiety. "It's true, Mr. Farmington was here several days ago."

As the noise level rose he shouted in order to continue, "and, ... and," The news people quieted somewhat to hear the rest of the answer. "and the interview had to be ended because one of the persons present became seriously ill." Mentally, the Sheriff crossed his fingers hoping that Yardley had no more than the local rumors to go on.

Over the rising tide of questions, Yardley's baritone again cut through the crowd. "Would that have been Malcolm Jamison, the prominent Seattle attorney whose services have been retained for years by the Farmington family?"

Yardley could not have done more damage if he had set of a bomb in downtown.

The Sheriff quietly cursed to himself and fought down the wave of nausea that threatened his composure. His heartburn was going to kill him. If it did; he wanted to take Yardley and whoever told him about the escape with him.

Clearly he had no choice but to confirm the information. "Yes, Mr. Jamison was here and he did become ill. We believe it was nothing more serious than altitude sickness, however, out of concern for his health we suspended our interviews."

He couldn't deny the facts. Anyone who cared to dig into the story would find that Jamison had been the person treated. The local EMTs were volunteers and there was no way to ensure their silence.

"Altitude sickness?" Yardley's reply sounded so innocent.

Then he dropped another bomb. "Huh? So why was it then that the EMTs had to unlock the interview room door and free your deputy and Mr. Jamison?"

The Sheriff gripped the sides of the podium until his knuckles turned white. He ground his teeth and wondered how a simple statement to the press had turned into a raging nightmare.

He trotted out the agreed upon damage control line he had rehearsed. "It appears that Mr. Farmington, in his anxiety to contact the emergency personnel inadvertently locked the door."

He wondered how he could extract himself from this debacle. _This must be what it's like to swim with a cut in shark infested waters._ he thought.

"Funny, my sources say that it was your deputy who called for help." Yardley might not be physically as fit as his peers but he was more than a match for them mentally.

The uproar of questions grew louder, more insistent, and definitely more hostile.

The Sheriff startled slightly at the touch on his right shoulder. The public information deputy leaned over to whisper in his ear. He took in the information, nodded, and left the podium without comment.

The news people went wild. Cameras panned as the Sheriff reentered the substation door.

Questions were fired one after another.

The public information officer stood stoically and waited for order to restore itself.

After several moments, and when he judged the timing to be right he spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen."

The din continued, softer but ongoing. "Ladies, and gentlemen," he repeated. "I apologize but the Sheriff was called away on urgent business."

There was a general, unbelieving uproar that ensued. The deputy put on his most patient waiting expression and rode out the latest wave of angry questions.

Eventually, he continued. "I have been authorized to announce that, since the beginning of this press conference, and based upon information from other law enforcement agencies as well as the prosecuting attorney's office, a warrant will be issued for Blake Edward Farmington."

The buzz turned from an angry to an excited murmur. With their attention now secured, the information officer continued. "This warrant is being issued in connection with the death of Patricia Martins. We believe that Mr. Farmington may be attempting to use his not inconsiderable financial resources to flee either to Canada or another country."

Now he had their attention riveted to the information he was disseminating. Despite that, he worried that they had not entirely forgotten about Yardley's tempestuous allegations.

"Police roadblocks have been established at the borders and watches are being maintained at all major transportation facilities. Thank you."

He abruptly left the podium before the barrage of questions could reach its crescendo. He was fuming inside. The Sheriff had made a hash of things by engaging in that exchange with Yardley. Without a doubt, there needed to be a thorough internal investigation. Someone had leaked dangerously embarrassing information. Information that threatened the Sheriff and his political allies.

_Not to mention my own career prospects._ the deputy thought angrily behind the neutrally pleasant expression he had cultivated as his 'public face.'
CHAPTER 24

When she arrived at the coffee shop Callie slipped into the ladies room. She immediately changed out of her casual clothing and into business attire, including the suit she had worn for the Morriston Inn demo.

_Thank heaven I didn't get it soiled!_ she thought as she changed in the faux stone tiled restroom.

She hated wearing suits. Not that she didn't wear them well. It's just that she was always more comfortable in jeans and a shirt. Suits were something you put on for specific events and for specific periods of time. Then, back into real clothes.

_Besides_ , she mused, _suits last longer if you don't wear them all the time. Of course, they also go out of style that way, but they_ do _last longer._

She checked her appearance in the wood framed mirror. Her hair was pulled back into an executive styled simple knot at the base of her neck. It was held in place by a simple, elegantly chiseled silver clip her Aunt Jean had given her years ago. She always carried the clip with her as a reminder of her aunt.

Callie gave a final check to her makeup and blotted her lipstick carefully. She had put on minimal makeup knowing that an executive would prefer a professional look for work. A woman especially had to present a professional appearance if she wants to be taken seriously in the business world. With a final nervous sigh, she opened the door and emerged transformed.

She couldn't bring herself to swallow her pride and order coffee, let alone drink it. As a result, she ordered iced tea.

You really had to work at screwing that up and somehow, the shop's chatty twenty-something staff had managed it. The tea tasted old, like it had been sitting in the urn too long. The plastic glass contained mostly ice and enough slightly hazy tea to fill the gaps between the cubes. Callie left it unappreciated and virtually untouched on the low table in front of her. She noticed that the neglected beverage grew paler though no less cloudy as the ice melted.

Callie took possession of one of the overstuffed chairs of the chain coffee shop and tried to blend in with the other office worker types. Since she didn't have her laptop with her, she pretended to pour over the brochures she had from the Morriston demo and Liz's notes about her new identity.

Liz had built Callie's false Farmington's persona around the Dayton office. She still had reasonable memories of the area so there was far less to worry about as far as the back story went. It was simple; she just had to remember her new name, her boss's name and a few other minor details.

With any luck she would be able to slip into the office suite unchallenged just at the end of the work day. Blake had told her about a few of the people she might run into. It would be helpful to sound informed and part of the team if she needed to bluff her way past anyone. She would only need to be in the offices about fifteen minutes.

She knew right where to look for the information in Trish's desk. It had to be on the back of the middle drawer. If not, things were going to be a whole lot more difficult.

She looked inside her briefcase. It was credible as a traveling troubleshooter's bag. Battered, scuffed, with fading faux brass latches. It said, 'I'm a no nonsense person. Don't even think of messing with me.' It projected the right image because, in addition to getting the pass codes from Trish's desk, she also needed to get into Blake's desk. She made sure that she could quickly get to the keys he had given her for his office door, his desk, and the miniature safe in the lower left hand side of it. Inside the safe was supposed to be an emergency petty cash supply.

"If this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is." he had quipped to her while giving her the keys. "It's my personal money, not corporate so no one should have any reason to deplete it and we _are_ going to need some operating capital if we're going to get to the bottom of this."

She smiled to herself as she remembered his easy, self-assured manner. Right now she wished that she could have just a bit of that confidence. Closing her brief case, she checked her watch. It was time to head down the road to the Farmington offices.

Callie pulled into the executive lot without any trouble. The pass key had worked the first time to let her into the controlled parking area. She parked about mid-way in the lot. Since it was just after four, she had a lot of choices. It seemed that Farmington's executives preferred to come in earlier in the morning in order to miss the worst of the afternoon Metro area traffic.

Being mid-distance from the building and the exit gate made it easier to get gone if someone tried to confront her as she left. The exit gate had no arm. It did have those retractable spikes in the pavement that always reminded her of dragon's teeth. But, they were there to keep people from coming in, not from going out.

She took her brief case and purposefully walked toward the executives' entrance. Blake had reassured her that, at this hour, she was unlikely to meet anyone coming down. Access to that elevator and to the management offices' floor were both controlled by the key card.

As she exited the elevator her vision had a crystal clarity she had rarely known. Everything stood out in stark contrast from the background, almost as if it had an aura setting it apart. Her breath was coming in short, ragged pants and she could feel her heart thudding in her chest. It felt like there were caterpillars crawling in her stomach. They settled down a bit when she noticed that no one was around.

Callie made her way down the aisle between the work cubicles to the end of the wing. She reached for the knob on the glass door labeled 'B. Farmington'. As she twisted it her hand slipped ever so slightly.

"Sweaty palms. Not a great thing for a burglar to have. Good thing I'm not intending to turn pro." she muttered under her breath.

Gripping the knob more firmly, she opened the door and shut it quietly behind her as she entered the suite. She was grateful beyond words that the blinds on the door and the glass walls on either side of it were all the way down. It made her feel just a bit safer knowing that she wouldn't have to work where anyone could see her.

"First priorities first, Callie." she reminded herself as she stepped behind Trish's desk. She stopped abruptly. It was as if she were frozen in place. The dark pool of blood was no longer there but she could see its outline where the carpet cleaner had extracted more dirt than mere vacuuming could remove. Callie felt the burn of bile rising in her throat. Ironically, she wondered if she might feel less unsettled if they had just cleaned the entire carpet.

She closed her eyes, struggling to compose herself. That only made it worse. She had a sudden, blinding vision of Trish Martins' lifeless body. Again, she could smell the sickly sweet copper tang of the blood. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out.

She fell into Trish's chair and her elbow banged on the edge of the desk. The shock and pain of hitting her 'funny bone' brought her back to reality. She had worried about this despite her assurance to Blake that she could handle it. She had the same response to sailboats on lakes. Whenever she drove across any of the numerous lakes in the area, she always kept her eyes glued to the roadway. Otherwise, even after all these years, she began to worry for the sailors and sometimes even weep for her parents.

Forcing herself to not look to her left where the negative image of the bloodstain was, she spun the chair to face the desk. Callie slowly opened the middle drawer. She didn't want to remove it all the way if she could help it.

_No telling if it'll be hard to get back in._ she thought. _Besides, the cops will have been through it. If they come back and it isn't just right, someone might notice._

Reaching over the back of the drawer, Callie felt a plastic envelope, like a cut down plastic folio sleeve. It was attached with horizontal strips of tape. "Not good." she muttered. If she didn't do this right, she might have to remove the middle and the bottom drawers to retrieve the information. She could feel the plastic sleeve and it was open on the edge, not the top. The tape securing it to the drawer back ran over the opening so she couldn't just slide them out.

Carefully sliding her fingers around the opening, she felt the slight bulge under the sleeve edge. Trish Martins had booby trapped her stash. A razor blade was positioned just back of the opening so that, if anyone tried to pry into her business, they would get a very nasty cut. One that would bleed copiously and be very evident.

"Clever girl Trish." she complimented the dead woman. "And thanks for confirming that we were right."

Callie carefully extracted the sleeve and dropped it into her briefcase. After shutting the desk drawer, she twisted to the right to exit the chair, thereby avoiding the area where Trish's body had lain. She was careful to reorient the chair to its original position.

"Need to be careful because the devil is in the details." she reminded herself in a barely audible whisper.

She crossed the outer office to the door leading into Blake's part of the suite. The key slid easily into the door lock. It turned soundlessly and she was inside Blake's official inner sanctum. It was very different from what she imagined.

High powered executive, heir to the company, rich guy. She imagined more opulence or at least more luxury. Instead, she noticed that Blake's desk was not overly large and very utilitarian. It wasn't even an antique. In fact, she had seen something very much like it in one of the office supply superstore catalogs she was always getting in the mail. The chair was comfortable, leather with arms, but again, it was off the floor. Not high end. There were pictures of him in his reenactor's gear. She smiled warmly at them.

"Little boys playing cowboys and Indians." she laughed to herself. But she also had to admit, he looked very happy.

She set the briefcase down in the foot space under the desk and opened the door that hid the in-desk safe. Because of the safe's weight, the desk panels went all the way to the floor to hide the extra supports. As she slid the safe key into the slot she heard the outer office door open. She removed the key quickly and quietly shut the covering door.

"Thank heaven for those felt bumpers." she thought as she squeezed herself and her brief case into the foot space.

Cold daggers of fear stabbed at her as she listened to the person in the outer office rummage through a file cabinet drawer. Her palms were sweating again.

She was sure she felt her heart skip a beat when a male voice in the outer office spoke. "Maybe it's in Blake's office."

"Could be. I'll look." The reply came from another man who sounded like he was just outside the door.

She could hear the jingling of keys along with the sound of a file cabinet drawer sliding open.

"Aha! Got it." the first person called out.

Whatever they had been looking for was found. Callie recognized she was holding her breath in anxiety. _Why can't they hear my heart thudding?_ she wondered.

The closer voice hid the sound of keys being put away. "Great. Let's get going. I hear that Macon is buying the first round and I want to be sure not to miss it. I'll drop this off at my desk and meet you out front in five."

The outer office door closed with a satisfying thud. Callie sat, balled up and taking quick, shallow breaths under Blake's desk for several more moments before emerging again.

Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key into its slot. Looking at it just millimeters from the lock she chided herself. _Calm down. Can't leave key marks. Too many questions if you do._

She took several deep breaths with her eyes closed, just like she had learned in that yoga class she had taken one summer when she was a teenager. She was surprised to find that it actually helped.

Callie slid the key into the lock of the safe and gave it a gentle turn. A satisfying 'snick' sound let her know that the door was unlocked. She swung it open carefully both to avoid making any sound or leaving any marks.

She was momentarily stunned by the sight inside the safe. The opening was about the size of one of those huge old dictionaries. There were two compartments. The upper one was filled with papers and folders. The lower one held bundles of bills. She began extracting the packets noticing that each one was made up of used twenties. The violet edged paper band around each of them read '$2000'.

Blake told her to take all the bundles. She couldn't help counting them as she slid them into the battered briefcase. There were twenty five packets of used twenties.

As she closed the latches it struck her. _I'm walking out of here with_ fifty thousand dollars _in small unmarked bills._

She couldn't decide what made her more nervous. Abetting a man wanted for questioning about a murder; burglarizing a corporate office with a fake ID; or carrying around a king's ransom in an old satchel. She felt naked and vulnerable in a way that merely not wearing clothes could never approach.

After waiting five minutes to make sure that no one else was prowling the upper level offices, Callie made her way down the elevator and back to the parking lot. No one challenged her; although she did get a couple of approving leers from two men talking as she passed by them. She responded coolly to discourage them and proceeded as casually as she could.

She even managed to get out a "G' night." without squeaking.

Her heart was still thudding like a pile driver. It felt like it was in her throat and she just wanted to run.

She clung desperately to what Blake had told her, "Act like you belong and everyone will assume that you _do_ belong."

It was all that kept her inside her skin.

She reached the car without seeing anyone else. She opened the door and hurriedly threw the briefcase onto the front passenger's seat before collapsing into the driver's seat.

The tension didn't exactly drain from her, but she felt safer, more secure inside the car. She started the engine and drove as slowly and casually as she could out of the parking lot gate.

She paused at the end of the drive, noting that the landscaping on the median as well as that on either side of the entrance was kept low enough that she could clearly see any traffic from either direction. In her nervous state, she was grateful to have all the help she could get. The last thing she needed to do was explain why Callie Adams of Bellington had been leaving the executive drive to Farmington's Fabulous Pastries with a briefcase full of used bills when she had her traffic accident.

Callie double checked the traffic before making a smooth right turn onto the thoroughfare. Rush hour was building like a flood torrent in a creek bed. Paying attention to the traffic immediately around her, she was aware of the cars she merged with. But she missed the low slung, dark sedan with heavily tinted windows across the road as it slid into traffic several cars behind her. Its movement was decidedly predatory. It had found one of its prey.
CHAPTER 25

Callie was worn out. It had been a long day. Long and stressful. From the moment that she swiped the access card at the executive entrance to the time she pulled out into the anonymity of the stream of cars flooding homeward to the outlying towns and cities, she had been terribly on edge. Coping with the tension of getting into and out of Blake's office without detection had strained her emotional reserves to the limit. Now that the danger was past, the inevitable sense of letdown only added to her exhaustion.

Callie thought about the long drive back to Blake's retreat and realized she felt both dread and anticipation.

She dreaded struggling through rush hour traffic in Seattle. The interminable lines of cars; the freight haulers from the port in their huge trucks trying to beat deadlines; the inevitable delays from congestion, accidents and gawkers; the crazy drivers cutting in and out of lines trying to save a few minutes on the commute time; all of them added to her sense of fatigue.

It was one of the things she liked most about Bellington. Smaller town, more bicycles, fewer cars and the port traffic all circumvented the business and residential areas.

On the other hand, she found herself excited and in a hurry to get back to Blake. She smiled as she thought of him. He was a man, in every sense of the word. Quiet, competent, complex and incredibly sexy. She remembered his madly passionate kisses. As she did, she became aware of the warm anticipation that suffused her.

"This is not going to help you get safely out of town in rush hour." she reminded herself in a soft voice. _But it_ does _make me feel more awake, alive even_. she thought.

She needed to feel awake and she needed something to sustain her on the long drive back to the trading post encampment on the Eastern Slope.

"Too bad I can't swing through Bellington, check up on business, get a change of clothes or two and get some decent coffee." Callie said to the empty seat beside her.

_Too risky now. If I run into someone I know,_ she shuddered with even more dread at the idea of running into Will.

_I'd have too much explaining to do and I'd never get back to Blake in time to do any good_. She reminded herself.

It surprised her to think of how much she dreaded seeing Will again. She had known Blake only a few days and yet, she felt more drawn to him; much safer with him; much more respected by him than she ever had with Will.

'Respected.' The word lingered like the refrain of a familiar song. Uncle Mac had always respected Aunt Jean. He had trusted her judgment, listened to her advice, and always relied on the strength of their marriage despite the long periods of absence when he was flying.

They were her ideal couple, the model of what a relationship should be. They were the standard by which all her relationships were judged, and found wanting.

She believed that Blake was a man who would respect her. He had already proven that when he succumbed to the logic of her argument that she, not he, should retrieve the password information and cash from the Farmington offices.

Will, on the other hand, had always wanted to bend her to his will. She snorted a short laugh at the unintentional pun in that thought.

But it was true, he failed to realize that she was an independent and capable person in her own right. When she married, it had to be to a man who could fulfill her expectations in the same way as she expected to fulfill his.

The tiny red subcompact cutting her off roused Callie from her reverie.

"Got to pay attention." she said out loud. "Got to wake up."

She spotted the small roadside coffee stand tucked away in the ell of the strip center on the opposite side of the street. It was an independent place, not a chain.

_There's a chance that the coffee will be decent._ she thought as she studied the movement of the cars around her. Traffic had thinned enough that she felt she had a good chance to get into the drive through and back on her way without too much delay.

"Plus, this may be the last place in town before I have to jump onto the Interstate." she reminded herself. "Obviously, I need coffee if I'm ever going to make this drive."

She'd hated making left turns ever since learning to drive. It all began one day when Uncle Mac was teaching her how to make lefts. She had signaled and was so busy aiming at the drive into the supermarket parking lot that she completely missed the car turning toward her from the intersection just beyond the drive. The driver was less than courteous. He didn't just sound his horn; he laid on it and then shouted invectives at her.

She was so rattled by the experience that she sat sobbing behind the wheel while Uncle Mac tried to soothe and calm her. She wanted him to drive home but he refused.

"Callie, you're going to have close calls and you're going to encounter people who are the south end of a north bound horse for the rest of your life. You can't just quit whenever that happens. You have to push through your fear, anger, whatever it is, and go on with life." His advice had stuck with her. It applied not only to driving but how she dealt with any crisis in her life. Uncle Mac had also encouraged her to analyze difficulties and think her way around them.

Making left turns when she wasn't at a traffic light was difficult for her. To deal with that, Callie devised a system that worked well for her. She would go to the next intersection with a traffic light, drive one block past it and make a right turn; at the next intersection another right; and finally a right onto the street with the light. Then she could make her left at the traffic signal followed a right turn into the drive she wanted. It was a bit complicated but it was sure easier on her nerves.

As she turned on her indicator before making the first right she looked in the rearview mirror. A low dark colored sedan swung precipitously from the left lane into the right.

"Another person rushing in rush hour traffic." she muttered aloud.

The block was very short and she made the next right almost immediately after the first. She worked her way back to the light and made her left turn on the arrow. As she pulled into the coffee shack she noticed what looked like the same dark sedan make a left into the shopping center across the street. She snorted thinking how foolishly some drivers act when they miss their turn.

Callie slipped her coffee into the cup holder and prepared to work her way back into the traffic heading out of town. She could smell the aroma of the rich dark brew and began to salivate.

Callie noticed that the dark sedan was right behind her at the intersection. A small voice whispered to her so softly that she almost ignored it.

"You're just getting paranoid because of breaking into a corporate executive's office." she chided herself.

Unable to resist looking again, she glanced in the rearview again just in time to see the dark sedan position itself a few cars back and to her left. Callie moved from the left lane into the middle one. Her hands gripped the wheel a bit more firmly. Despite the rich smell of the coffee, her mouth went dry.

She knew she was probably just experiencing an exhaustion driven, alarmist fantasy. She tried to reassure herself that she was seeing threats where there weren't any but she wanted to be able to dodge out of traffic if her anxiety got too strong.

As she took the ramp onto the interstate heading North, Callie uncharacteristically sped up and zigged into a narrow space between a delivery van and a semi. The van driver backed off. She could see him cursing as she looked in the mirror.

_Chalk it up to another ditzy woman driver._ she thought.

She glanced at the driver's side mirror and noticed that the dark sedan had sped up to maintain its contact with her.

It sat back just far enough that it could observe her and still make a move to follow her.

Now she was getting really worried.

Her dry mouth was getting worse and she could feel her pulse quicken. "They can't be the cops." she told herself. Cops would have stopped her by now.

_Corporate security?_ she wondered, but dismissed that thought right away. Corporate security couldn't do anything off the property. _This is a public street and they have no authority here_.

She began to study the large green overhead signs.

She was heading North out of town, intending to take the interstate to where it intersected the highway over Stevens Pass.

It was the shortest route to Blake.

She saw the exit for the highway back toward Bellevue coming up.

She decided to test her paranoia by indicating that she was going to move into the exit only lane. She glanced in her mirror as she began to move right and sure enough, the dark sedan moved behind the delivery van, cutting off a small import. She _was_ being followed!

Callie had no one to turn to for help right now. Anyone who could help her would ask too many questions about where she had been and what she had been doing. She needed to find a way to shake off whoever it was that was tailing her. She could feel her pulse escalating as she considered her options.

_Don't panic, you can figure this out._ The tiny bit of self-talk helped calm her.

She needed to think of how she could lose the dark, low slung hunter. Callie began to rummage through her memory. She knew that she could no longer take the short route back over the pass.

She had been out this way several times and she remembered that, as you got closer to the foothills, there were lots of twists and turns on the older roads, plenty of places to shake off the pursuing sedan. If she could pull ahead of them enough, she might be able to lose them among the mixed wooded and farm country. She vaguely remembered something about flooding out there but that had been earlier in the summer. Nothing that should affect her now.

Callie turned off the interstate ring road and onto the highway heading East. The sedan stayed with her. It was always a few cars behind where it could shadow her movements.

She made several dodging moves as she passed through a little bedroom community but the sedan always managed to keep in touch. She headed further out on the increasingly lonely rural road.

The sedan no longer made any pretense about its intentions. Callie's worry became alarm. What if she couldn't lose whoever was driving the sedan? She'd been so sure that she could lose them.

Uncle Mac had always told her to keep her eyes looking way ahead of her car. He taught her that you can maintain better control, higher speed, and better maneuverability if you drive toward a point well down the road.

She had tested the technique a couple of times on roads back home. Aunt Jean probably would have stroked if she knew some of the turns Callie had taken at high speed. But now, the teaching was paying off.

Callie maneuvered the all wheel drive wagon like a sports car. It didn't hurt that the car was fairly low to the ground but most of her success at pulling away from the sedan was due to her skill and the stable traction from the all wheel drive.

She had opened up enough of a lead that she didn't see the sedan in her rearview mirror on the last two curves.

_Now_ , she thought, _all I have to do is find a cutoff that won't kick up a bunch of dust and I may be able to lose them._

She knew that most of the secondary roads out here lead back into the tiny towns that dotted the foothills.

As Callie began looking for a suitable cutoff, the road suddenly straightened out. She groaned. The papery dryness in her mouth intensified. She could feel her quickening pulse in the veins of her neck. No matter the skill of the driver, the sedan had a bigger, more powerful engine and her pursuers were sure to catch her if she couldn't find a cutoff, and soon.

The road took a moderate turn toward the west and the setting sun. Callie now had to deal with the bright light glaring in her eyes and where the forest shaded it, deep shadows that left her momentarily blinded and a bit disoriented.

After narrowly missing a piece of wood lying on the road, she forced herself to slow down. Damaging her car or worse, wrecking it would only mean that her pursuers wouldn't have to catch her; they would only have to stop and pick her up.

Callie still couldn't figure out why the people in the sedan were chasing her. What did they want?

They're obviously not the police.

Who else would want to catch me, and for what?

She scanned the road ahead for a suitable place to turn off. Suddenly, the sedan was visible in the rearview mirror. It was far back but closing quickly like a relentless wolf in pursuit of a deer.

The road veered more southerly and the glare eased up a bit. Callie pushed the small fuel efficient engine for all it was worth. She didn't pull ahead but at least they were gaining on her more slowly.

Just past a stand of trees she noticed a side road. Down it was what appeared to be a ranch house. There were machines kicking up dust in the dry pastures.

Hopefully, her turn onto the road would be hidden from the sedan by the small patch of woods. And, if she was really lucky, there would be somewhere to hide until they had passed. She braked and steered hard to the right, the rear wheels wanting to slip on the loose gravel.

The side road was as straight as a string for the first half mile but Callie could see that it dropped down toward what looked like a creek or stream.

Maybe she could 'hide' in that depression before the sedan got to the turn off.

She accelerated and glanced in the rear view mirror.

_Not much dust._ she noted with some satisfaction.

Just then, the dark sedan rocketed past the turn off. She mentally crossed her fingers and kept pushing toward the ranch house and perceived safety. Cowboys weren't always cultured gentlemen but they were always willing to help a lady in distress.

_It's the code of the west._ she thought. She was getting punchy from the toxic brew of fear and exhaustion.

Callie could hear the squeal of tires being tortured by sudden braking. There was a loud revving sound as the sedan backed up to the cut off and chased after her.

"Damn!" she shouted as she barreled headlong down the gravel road.

The sedan was gaining and there was nothing she could do. Callie looked up in the rearview in time to see the sedan hurtling toward her.

In a moment of crystal clarity she realized, they were planning to ram her. She braced for the impact which came only a moment later.

She bit the inside of her lip and tasted the copper tang of blood. Her heart was racing and her palms were sweating.

"How much further can that ranch be?" she cried to herself.

Suddenly, looming in front of her was a yawning chasm where a bridge used to be. All that remained after the flooding were the approach and a couple of pilings mid stream.

The planking was gone and with it, her chance to reach help.

Callie froze, her foot glued to the accelerator as she saw the sedan coming up fast to ram her again.

Just as the sedan was upon her, she slewed the all wheel drive wagon to the left and hit the brake.

Rocks and dirt flew, sending up a cloud of debris that masked the bridge approach.

The little wagon leapt up the small embankment and through the three strand wire fence.

Her head bumped against the roof as she took the hurdle but the wagon was still moving, the all wheel drive biting into the sandy soil and propelling her into the pasture.

Startled beef cattle fled from the aggressive green intruder that interrupted their grazing.

Callie looked for the sedan but it had disappeared.

There was a revving sound from her right. She turned the wagon around and eased it down the small embankment.

She could see the sedan, slewed sideways in the creek bed. The car was wedged between the pilings. The driver was obviously unconscious with his foot plastered to the accelerator. She couldn't see if anyone else was in the car and, frankly, she didn't care. Whoever was there had tried to kill her.

She blotted her bleeding lip on her sleeve, mindless of the stain it would leave on her best business suit. She eased the wagon around until it headed back toward the highway.

Blake was pacing furiously outside the long house. He had taken his anxiety out on the pile of logs waiting to be made into firewood. Each blow of the axe propelled by his heavily muscled arms was directed by his self loathing.

"Why did I ever agree to her taking such a risk?" he asked again and again as he slammed the heavy blade into the segments of fir and pine.

The sunlight had retreated behind the mountains and he could no longer see well enough to exorcise his fears through splitting.

At the end of each anxious leg of his agitated prowling, he paused to listen for the sound of the all wheel drive wagon that should have returned hours ago.

If she were hurt he would never forgive himself. Why hadn't he told her how he really felt? Why had he not found another way to get the job done without risking her? There were no answers to the questions and yet he asked them of himself over and over.

The calls of the night were suddenly silent. From the direction of the roadway came the low growl of an engine. Light pierced the gloom and illuminated ghostly shapes among the trees and brush.

Never thinking that it could be anyone but Callie, Blake rushed to the opening in the brush that led to the clearing. He exploded through the bushes just as the little green wagon slowed, looking for the right place to penetrate the forest wall.

He motioned for her to turn into the narrow track and, as she did, he jogged ahead, urging her to follow him to the secluded parking space. Callie marveled at his easy, loping stride. He moved with the strength and confidence that she found intoxicating. His muscular legs pumped with an effortlessness that bespoke stamina and grace.

Blake veered to the right while gesturing to the left with a heavily muscled, masculine arm. Callie saw the sheltered spot where the wagon had rested very much earlier this morning. She slowed and turned into it.

The car stopped abruptly and Callie threw open the door. She burst out of the car and ran to Blake, throwing her trembling body at him.

He enfolded her in his muscular arms. The pressure of his embrace compressed her very being, wringing the fear from her and suffusing her with a rush of heat that drove away the chill mountain night.

Blake relaxed his embrace and held her firmly but gently at arm's length. His face was illuminated by the moonlight, its planes and angles picked out in silver blue light.

He looked like some forest god staring at her with those terrible, searing, piercing blue eyes. She felt herself go weak under his intense masculine gaze.

She thrilled at the smoldering passion flaring in those wonderful eyes.

"I'm sorry to be so late." she spoke with a mildness her body did not feel. She was here, safe and with Blake. She wanted to be bold, forward, and utterly feminine.

He stared at her, as if looking into her soul. His grip tightened on her arms. The firmness of it made her gasp.

She found it hard to breathe.

Callie reached up to encircle his neck with her trembling arms.

Blake drew her close to him again. He enfolded her, enveloped her in his arms. She could feel the fierce beating of his heart as she clung to him.

He groaned with mixed anguish and relief. "Where have you been, I thought I would go out of my mind!"

Callie's reply echoed the soft murmur of the wind in the treetops. "I'm here now. Everything's alright. No need to worry now."

She could smell the masculine aroma of his skin mingled with the smell of freshly cut wood. It was arousing, primitive and elemental.

As Callie inhaled his manly scent, heat surged like molten metal to the floor of her pelvis. There it spread; a scorching, molten desire that threatened to consume her.

Blake again held her arms in his strong, tender hands. He moved her back just far enough to look hotly into her eyes again.

She was blissfully aware of the searing, breathtakingly sexy need she saw in his eyes.

He said nothing. Instead he cupped the back of her head with one hand and drew her insistently, irresistibly toward him.

His mouth came down, covering hers. His lips were hot and hard on her soft moist mouth.

His tongue probed lightly, then insistently for only the briefest moment until she responded.

The liquid pool of her desire became a fountain. The warmth from her feminine center flooded her as she felt her body respond to his ardent kiss.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, competing with her nipples to see which could rise faster.

A soft, throaty moan rose from her. Desire shuddered through her, the heat of her molten core merging with the fire from Blake's burning kiss.

She slid her hands under the back of his loose shirt. The taught, smooth muscles of his back were warm, no burning, to the touch.

She began to caress him, her fingers applying ever deeper pressure as she explored the contours of his taughtly muscled back.

The soft raking motions of her fingernails on his skin seemed to draw the essence and reality of him even closer to her.

The blend of tension and fear inside her became a raging torrent of overpowering need.

She was surprised to feel the cool night breeze caressing the skin of her upper chest. It moved like a sensuous wave across the skin above her bra.

She reveled in the feel of it, both cooling and erotically stimulating.

Callie had been so frenzied with exploring the smooth richness of Blake's back that she didn't realize he had unbuttoned the silk blouse beneath her suit jacket.

Fire and ice shot through her as Blake began to hotly kiss and suckle the skin on her neck. He was nibbling, sucking, and kissing his way down to her shoulders. Fire trailed in the wake of his lips.

A shudder ran through her. She needed him; needed him even closer.

Callie's hands slid down his back to cup his tight, muscular buttocks and, in response he thrust his pelvis against her.

She could feel the pulsing rigidity of his erection through their clothing. It strained like a caged beast, yearning to break free of its fetters and fulfill its primal purpose.

Alarmed by the degree of her craving for this man, she suddenly released her grip on him.

Her hands came up and she pushed ineffectively against the immovable, rock hard contours of his chest.

His strong arms entrapped her.

She did not fear him but she was afraid to give herself over to him.

Every man with whom she had been intimate had betrayed her trust. They had either tried to change, dominate or control her.

It was the reason she had been involved with only a handful of men. 'Fool me once ...' had become a guiding principal for her.

She wasn't about to make another mistake. Yet this yearning, this need to know Blake intimately drew her to him.

"Blake ..." she found she had moaned his name.

"Blake ...." she tried to sound more reserved than her body felt.

His name still came out as a purring sound from her throat. "I .... I ... need....." the shower of moist, hot kisses across her shoulder and at the base of her throat prevented her from thinking, much less speaking.

His words, each one a soft, hoarse growl of longing came between the kissing, suckling, and nibbling. "I .... Need .....too...."

She was losing her will to resist him. The fountain of desire rising from her core was now a yearning fullness urgently seeking the instrument of its release.

His insistent erection pressed against her belly, heightening her arousal as she became aware of her feminine power over him.

Blake's calloused; powerful hands gently cupped her breasts.

His fingers traced the rigid outline of her nipples straining against the soft fabric of her bra. Each tracing shot liquid fire in brilliant hues coursing through her.

She moaned again, deep in her throat, lost in the sizzling sensations of his touch.

Callie wriggled against his chest. Each small movement causing delicious thrills to race from her nipples sweeping down to the female center of her. Heat pooled, coalesced, concentrated in her lower body.

His strong hand seemed to follow their path down her belly, further fueling the fire inside.

With a suddenness that thrilled her, Blake's hand moved through the soft hairs beneath her panties and cupped her hot, swollen sex.

Tenderly, with an agonizingly slow insistence his finger found its way into the warm moistness of her.

She gasped with pleasure and then moaned in disappointment as it retreated out of her and up the folds to that most sensitive spot. There it lingered, first slowly spreading the hot dew of her feminine passage and then insistently massaging, swirling, probing.

The moonlit forest began to dissolve.

The stars above became iridescent points of color.

They glowed brighter and grew in intensity as his powerful fingers gently pinched and probed her.

The sensation of the gentle squeezing, stroking of her tender spot built an intensity that was almost unbearable.

The fire inside her began to merge with and was somehow fed by the dancing points of light in the sky.

Her clothing seemed to melt from her. She was aware of the cool air struggling in vain to quench the searing fire Blake's kisses and caresses had kindled.

She was aware that his clothing too seemed to have disappeared with the heat of their shared passion.

She took the rigid, velvet headed shaft of him in her hand. It pulsed, throbbed, strained at her touch.

An animal, visceral, growling moan issued from Blake's throat, he gasped.

Callie saw his eyes roll back with pleasure as her hand firmly encircled him. "

The heat radiating from his penis matched the inferno between her legs.

Far away she heard herself say, "Now ..... please..... Blake ...... now ..... I ....... need ...... now......" she had never experienced this level of excitement in the arms of a man. She didn't want it to end.

Between kisses on her breasts and nibbles on her nipples he managed to say, "Soon ...." His tongue darted in and out licking the cleft between her breasts.

A wave of fire suffused her; starting at the nape of her neck and exploding through her body. She felt as if she were glowing.

His tongue played over her nipples, its warm moistness seeping into her.

She breathed in sharply, gasping with pleasure. Her nipples became even more erect, hardening to a heavy tightness that deliciously enhanced her arousal.

His finger became more insistent as it performed its dance of pleasure on her sensitive bud. She felt waves of sensation growing larger, more powerful emanating from under his finger and crashing through her.

The tension was unbearable. She was sure she would come apart in small iridescent bits that would merge with the stars above.

Suddenly, those sensations overwhelmed her, she felt herself drowning in pleasure. She had never experienced a release so profound, so satisfying.

A shriek escaped her as she came to her climax.

Blake's fingers paused and then began a new dance. She had just caught her breath when his massaging elicited another intense orgasm.

Callie clung to Blake's neck like a drowning woman to a life preserver. He supported her with one hand while reaching behind her.

He swept his jeans from the bush where they had come to rest when he discarded them. From a pocket he took a small square packet.

Dropping the jeans and holding the packet by a corner with his teeth, he effortlessly carried Callie to a pile of fallen leaves.

As he lay her down on them he tore the packet open. He again began to massage her tenderly and she responded to his touch, arching urgently to meet his fingers.

The World outside her began fading into bright beautiful colors again. Fiery oranges and yellows played across her as the pressure and tension again built in her.

She couldn't do without him any longer. "Blake, I want you inside me. Now."

As Blake entered her she felt herself stretching to meet his fullness. He filled her completely, the width and length of him was almost beyond her ability to hold him.

Suddenly the colors exploded into brilliant reds as she climaxed for the third time. Fuchsia, scarlet, vermillion, the hues of passionate pleasure immersed her.

She rode Blake's rhythmic motion, arching and squeezing in time with his thrusts.

He suddenly withdrew almost all the way before making one final, heated plunge deep inside her.

Every muscle in his body went rigid as he strained against her, a long, hoarse groan of pleasure escaped him.

Callie wrapped her arms and legs tightly around his strong body.

She felt the shudder of his climax echoing through her.

She thrilled at his satisfied cry.

She was afloat, alive, truly alive with pleasure for the first time in her life and she never wanted to let go.

Sometime later, as they roused from the lingering tendrils of their lovemaking, Blake languidly stood up and went to the car. He remembered seeing some blankets on the back seat. He went to get one for Callie, thinking that she might be chilled by the cool mountain air. When he brought it back, she asked him to spread it on the ground instead.

"You're better than any blanket for staying warm." Her voice purred with contentment and satiation.

Here, alone with him on the mountain side, she seemed to have no reluctance to be at one with nature and the night.

Blake laid down on the blanket and drew her to him. He savored the warm smoothness of Callie's skin as they lay snuggling in the afterglow. The heady scent of her hair mixed with the aromas of pine, fir, sweet grass and the lingering earthy fragrance of their lovemaking.

One of his arms was draped around her waist, is fingers absentmindedly caressing her belly. The warm, soft smoothness of her and the rhythm of his caresses left him drifting on the edge of consciousness. He had never felt such peace and contentment. He could go on like this forever.

She stirred against him, snuggling closer. The intimacy of her naked, close, and unashamed filled him with an overwhelming tenderness. He knew this was right. This was the woman he had sought all his life. Once this trouble was passed he intended to make her his wife.

"I've never done that before." Callie said softly. A pensive smile crossed her face.

Blake's heart skipped a beat. Concern washed over him like a cold mountain stream.

"What's that?" He turned his head and earnestly searched her face for any sign of regret.

"Made love outdoors." She made a soft contented noise as she settled into the curve of his body.

Blake smiled, his concerns washed away in relief. "Neither have I." he confessed.

Callie propped herself on one elbow and stared at him in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope." He drew her down to him. Their arms and legs intertwined as naturally as vines in the wood.

"I would have thought, what with being a big re-enactor guy......" She allowed the question to trail off unfinished.

"That's just it. We are all re-enactor _guys_. It's nothing personal but all those beards put me off."

She poked him playfully in the ribs making him squirm to get away from her attacks. "Really, no women re-enactors?"

"Sure but they tend to stay with their husbands. No single women. At least not in our area. I've heard of some in other places but not here." He moved back toward her, craving the warmth and smell of her.

"But surely, there've been ......" Again she left the question incomplete.

He smiled at her. "Most of the women I've met are not interested in much beyond what dress to wear, which caterer to use, and 'who's sleeping with whom' kind of gossip. I'm not saying they're vapid but their interests are pretty narrow and self focused."

After a brief pause he added, "With them, it's more about social climbing than tree climbing."

She poked him again.

Blake made a playfully hurt face. "Hey! I'm serious here."

He grabbed her and they wrestled playfully before he succeeded in rolling her on top of him. Her nipples crushed deliciously against his broad chest. Her legs entwined with his.

Gently moving her tousled hair from her face, he spoke so softly that his voice was almost lost in the light breeze rustling the trees. "Besides, I would never want to share this with anyone but you."

Callie smiled, snuggled against his chest and they fell asleep in each others' arms. Their cares, worries, and troubles floated away on the night breeze.
CHAPTER 26

Susan Fields was on the verge of losing her temper. "What. Do. You. Mean. You lost her?" the sentence came out as a staccato series of single words. She was struggling to maintain some calm _. Remember Susan, these people are dangerous. You can't insult them with impunity._

"Never mind." she told the man on the other end of the line. "Send me a complete report through the usual means." Emphasizing the urgency of her need, she demanded, "And I want it in my hand _within the hour_."

Susan rang off and contemplated the information she had already received. The preliminary report from the field operatives was disturbing if it was correct. They had not made a visual identification of Callie Adams but they were positive that it was her car.

"Who would she lend her car to that would have any business at Farmington's headquarters?" she asked no one in particular.

Susan paused, recollecting that, while talking out loud was the most effective way for her to problem solve, it also could be overheard by others. She looked out of the glass windows surrounding her office at the 'Sampson for Congress' campaign headquarters.

No one was near her space and, even if they had been, the din of day to day chatter, calls and movement should have drowned out her single voice. Things were always a bit more chaotic in the bullpen when Will was out making a speech. His mere presence brought order and decorum out of chaos. That's why he was going to make such a good congressman and eventually president.

Turning her back she picked up a sheaf of papers and pretended to read through them. _No sense being seen talking to myself._ she thought.

_And if it wasn't someone else, what would Callie be doing at Farmington's?_ The implication was too dangerous to consider. Susan ran through the list of known factors.

Callie was missing. She had not returned to Bellington and no one she knew had heard from her. Very discrete inquiries had been made.

Callie's car was seen leaving the executive entrance to Farmington's corporate offices late in the afternoon. The field operatives had followed her and attempted to 'bring her back in' but she had eluded them.

"That should be interesting to read." Susan snorted. She had already received notice that the car they had been driving was going to be totaled out.

The facts all pointed to one conclusion. Never mind that it was insanely improbable. Susan was convinced that, somehow, Callie Adams was working in concert with Blake Farmington, wealthy executive, political enemy, murder suspect, and fugitive.

"This is _not_ going to help the campaign." She spat out the words as if they were poison. Stupid Will had gotten involved with some bimbo that was now abetting an escapee accused of murder. Great! If it was true and if it ever got out, it would destroy all they had worked for. She needed to come up with a damage control cover story and quick.

Susan knew she had to report this but she wanted to see the written report first. The details might suggest some spin that they could put on it. Stockholm Syndrome maybe? Kidnapping victim terrorized into aiding her captor, a la Patty Hearst?

That might work but it would undoubtedly have negative repercussions for the campaign. Almost certainly, Will just couldn't marry her after a story like that. Callie would have to be shunted off to some dependable private sanatorium until after the election. Incognito and incommunicado.

"Well, maybe things are looking up after all." she said to herself with secret satisfaction as she turned around to gaze at the hubbub of the office.

Two hours later Susan was on the phone. "They sighted the car coming out of the Farmington executive entrance drive. Just dumb luck really. They were looking for Farmington or someone on the watch list who might be acting for him."

She listened to the question on the other end. "No they were not able to confirm the driver. The best shot they had was when the car pulled into a coffee stand but, with rush hour traffic, they couldn't get a clear line of sight."

"I know that, if it _was_ Callie, we could have some problems. I'm working on a damage control plan in case we need it." Susan was anxious to make sure that he knew she was ahead of the game.

She continued, "For now, we are in the clear. The field operatives were able to leave the area unobserved. The car was reported stolen and it seems that the cops are buying the story that it was a joyride gone bad."

She had to tread carefully here, he was getting agitated and it wouldn't do any good to get into an argument.

"No, I thought it best to keep clear of my contacts with the police. Someone could get too curious if the Campaign's publicist is asking about a joyride. I have my ear to the ground and, if it looks like something about Callie is going to pop, I'll know about it in time to launch the damage control plan."

He sounded dubious but Susan knew that he could see the sense in what she said.

"I think we are going to have to think about the possibility of delaying the engagement announcement or we're going to have to have a damned good reason for her not being there."

He went ballistic at that.

"Calm down." she said reassuringly. "We still have plenty of time and, who knows, she may just be having a bout of cold feet. She knows that the press conference is scheduled and she knows what she has to do."

_The problem is, Callie Adams doesn't always go along with the playbook_ , she grumbled to herself. There was no reason to inflame him by saying that.

She was growing tired of his anxious whining. She needed to wind this up before she said something she would regret. There was no reason to risk blowing a good thing with Will.

"It's okay. Really. I have it under control and I'll keep you posted. You just worry about the campaign. I have this handled."

He whined a bit more and then hung up.

As Susan set the phone down she muttered, "Men! All testosterone and no brains."

But still, they had their uses.
CHAPTER 27

The green all wheel drive wagon cruised effortlessly down the road. Callie was struck by how different Eastern Washington looked from Western Washington. In all the tourism brochures, picture books, and general literature about the state, the Cascades, the Olympic Forest, the Puget Sound and the Pacific Coast were the areas highlighted. Heck, Mt. Rainier appears on the license plates.

Despite all that, Western Washington is a little less than half the land in the state. The majority of the state looked like this. High plains, sandy land stretching off into the distance dotted with low scrub and the occasional tree. There was a stark beauty to it that it had taken her a while to appreciate.

Blake had been sitting quietly since they dropped the letter into the rural mail box on the outskirts of the little town. The nice thing about rural service is that no one really lives close to their mail box. Most houses are well removed from the roadways. One letter more or less generally doesn't get all that much notice.

Callie glanced at Blake. A slow satisfied look crossed her face. She felt heaviness in her core, the kind that comes from arousal, as she remembered their passionate lovemaking under the stars.

_What a great tension release._ she mused. _I can't remember when I have felt so good, so alive._

But the worry that it was only that, a release, not a connection swept through her damping the smoldering embers within her.

She tried to break the profound silence. "I'll say one thing."

"Hmm." came his absent minded reply.

He didn't even look in her direction but kept his gaze directed out the passenger side window. Occasionally, he would lean forward to look at the rear view mirror. Each time he looked in it, studying the traffic behind them, the lettering that read 'Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear' taunted him. He couldn't help but think it might be prophetic.

"Lapsadoodle ipswitch floorplan." she rattled off the nonsense as conversationally as she could.

"Hmmmm." Blake responded as he leaned forward to look in the mirror again.

Callie backhanded his left arm, only half playfully.

_You can't make me soar with pleasure and then ignore me buster._ she thought. But that thought came out as, "Hey. Farmington. Wanna join the conversation here?"

He looked at her like a man roused from sleep. "What did you say about a floor plan?"

"Oh, lapasdoodle ipswitch floorplan. I figured since I was talking to myself I would invent a new language."

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm just a bit distracted. Don't like all this open space. Too easy for someone to spot us."

"Oh, you don't have to be in open spaces for people to be following you." she replied casually. Callie had been thinking all day of how she could tell Blake about being followed by the dark sedan.

"No, I guess you ......" he broke off abruptly.

Blake's head swiveled toward Callie and she could feel his fixed gaze burning into her. "I don't suppose you would care to tell me just _why_ you said that, would you?"

His body tensed, giving him a dangerous appearance as his attention riveted on her.

"Well, I have been trying to think of a way to tell you about yesterday that wouldn't make you get all manly and protective." She flashed him a quick, questioning smile.

"What _about_ yesterday? You said everything went _fine_." There was a low, menacing quality to his words.

She knew that he was getting very angry at himself again for letting her go alone on the errand. Their argument before-hand hadn't helped anything. He had only reluctantly bowed to her persuasion after putting up a huge struggle. Now Callie could see that he was getting wound up again. She wanted to avoid another fit of pique but Blake seemed to be determined to have one.

"Well, it did. I got in, got the passwords and such, and got back, didn't I?" She vainly hoped that she could distract him from the more disturbing aspects of her trip.

"Yes, but you also got back later than we planned." His voice was low, insistent and very intense.

"You seemed glad enough to see me." Callie teased him by flashing a knowing smile.

Blake ignored her flirtatiousness. A frisson of unease ran through Callie reinforcing her worry that their lovemaking had only been a one-night-stand brought on by shared worry and need.

"What happened yesterday that you didn't tell me about Callie?" His tone made it clear that he would brook no delay nor would he allow her to avoid the question.

Callie told him about nearly being caught inside his office. After spinning out the story, she glanced at him to see if that would placate his curiosity. The look of impatience she got back clearly said it wouldn't so she began to tell him about the dark sedan that had followed her out of town.

Blake could barely contain himself as he listened to how the sedan pursued her, rammed her, and how she escaped by what he saw as mere chance. He shuddered inside to think of her battered, hurt, even possibly killed.

He had waited all his life to find a woman like her. He'd thought he would never find someone who completed him like she could. Especially after his divorce from the woman who had betrayed their wedding vows within six months of taking them.

He had pretty much abandoned the idea of marriage despite his family's pressure to make a suitable match to 'carry on the line'. Blake knew now that he had found the woman that was the other part of himself, he wasn't about to lose her to anyone.

She might not be from what some considered 'a good family' but that didn't bother him. She was more than that. She was a good person. He'd known it in his soul from the first moment he'd seen her. She had spirit, courage, drive, and tenderness. He couldn't bear the thought of her not being in his world.

Callie looked at Blake as she finished her tale. The look of cold fury she found on his face almost frightened her.

"That's it." The simple words were those of a man used to making command decisions. "From now on, you are out of this."

Callie was flabbergasted. _How dare he think he could just order her around like that_? They were partners in this, she didn't work for him!

An icy silence grew between them.

Abruptly, Callie swerved off the pavement and stomped on the brakes. As the wagon came to rest in a fine cloud of sandy dust she slammed the gear shift into park.

She was furious at Blake's assumption that she was not capable of looking after herself.

"Let's get something straight her _Mr._ Blake Farmington." Her sarcastic emphasis on mister was like a slap in the face. His astonishment increased when she continued.

"I am not your employee. I am not your servant. And you will _not_ tell me what I can and can't do. In case you haven't noticed it, I am up to my neck in this mess of yours. I broke into your offices. I stole the personal property of a murdered woman. I've enlisted my friends help to get your butt out of a sling. That makes me an accessory to any crime they charge you with. I can't very well say I didn't know what I was doing, can I?" Her irate tone added weight to the words she spoke.

"Get this straight mountain man. Someone is now trying to _kill me_. I don't know who or why but I can't just walk away from this now." She paused, taking a long deep breath as she tried to regain control.

"What's more, I won't. I am sick and tired of people trying to run my life, let alone end it. So, unless you want me getting in your way all the time, you'd better damned well figure out that we are in this together. And together is the only way we are going to get out of it. I am not just some toy you can pick up, play with, and then discard when you want to."

Blake was shocked. He had never imagined that she could draw on such a depth of power and resolve. She was staring at him with a determination that would not be shaken by anything he could say or do.

It was true; she had placed herself at risk to help him. And, whoever had rammed her was not going to give up. Especially since she had humiliated them once already.

He took his own deep breath, nodding with a chagrined smile. "Alright. We're in this together and well get out of it together. But we need to find some way to make sure you are as safe as possible. I can't spend another night like last night. Being terrified that something had happened to you."

Callie's anger, fear, frustration, and determination weren't cooled off by his simple acquiescence yet she was touched by the depth of his concern for her.

"Fair enough." she said as she put the car into gear. They both looked behind them, Callie for traffic, Blake for threats.

As the car eased back onto the roadway Callie asked as casually as she could, " Blake, have you thought about who would want to frame you for Trish's murder? I mean, someone would have to hate you a lot to do that."

Blake looked at her with admiration. She had managed to cut through all the distractions to the core issue. Her ability to sift through the chaff and focus on what was truly important was impressive.

"I've been trying to figure that out since I was locked up in Morriston." His frustration laced each word.

"Maybe if we talked about who might have a grudge it might help." Looking to ease the tension between them, she turned toward him and cocked an eyebrow. "Can we assume that you have made your share of enemies in life? Not that you aren't charming but you do seem to be able to piss people off at times."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah. I'm good at pissing people off. Sometimes I even mean to do it."  
The strain between them eased somewhat more.

"Seriously, it might help to run through the possibilities. At least it's a starting point." Callie's voice conveyed her earnest desire to help unravel the mystery. "How about starting with anyone recent that might have a big time grudge."

"The latest person I can think of isn't even in this country." Blake responded.

"Really?" Callie suppressed the desire to ask, _So you piss people off on an international scale?_

Since Blake offered no further information she pressed on. "Well, it's a starting point. Why don't you run the situation down for me? You never can tell, it might just trigger something else."

Blake settled into his guard position again, keeping watch in front and, using the passenger's rear view mirror, behind them.

He shifted slightly in the seat, trying to get a bit more comfortable. "It was about six months ago that it all came to a head."

He lapsed into another prolonged silence.

"Uh-huh." Callie made a 'go on' gesture with her hand.

When it yielded no immediate response, she asked, "And where did this happen?"

Emerging from his reverie Blake responded, "Shanghai."

He glanced over at her. Her face was reflective. It was obvious that she was waiting for more information. Blake speculated to himself that Callie was using this as a way of sidelining her anxiety over her near escape yesterday. Perhaps they would help each other this way.

She turned her head to find him looking at her. "You know, this is going to go a whole lot faster if you give more than just single word answers."

He smiled at her and nodded his agreement. "You're right. Sorry. I was just trying to gather my thoughts."

He turned back to watching the rear view mirror and, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A faint rasping sound came from the stubble meeting his long, powerful fingers.

"Like I was saying, it was in Shanghai. I was over there doing some of the final work on the Asian expansion deal. Their way of doing business is a bit different than ours. Lots of players. Lots of changes. Like I said before, it's not uncommon to have to renegotiate clauses and provision in contracts right up until the pen is put on the paper."

"Uh-huh." came Callie's reply.

He toyed with teasing her about her short answer but thought better of it. "Anyway, there was this one guy. Everyone seemed to defer to him whenever he was present but, he wasn't connected with either the company or the local government. We thought he might be some political big wig or a regional player. Never gave it a whole lot of thought 'cause he just kinda floated in and out. You know, he wasn't there all the time."

"Yeah." Callie said, nodding. He could see her placing the pieces of the puzzle neatly in order inside her mind.

"Sooooo, he turns up at what is supposed to be one of the final meetings. He listened for a while and then made some comment in Chinese. Suddenly everyone got up and started to leave. The translator looked embarrassed and worried. She stood up and apologized saying that they needed a moment."

An enigmatic look came over his face as he paused. "No explanation other than that. Just, they needed a moment. We all looked at each other and shrugged. I mean, what else were we going to do? There we were, within about a month of signing the agreement. Shipments were being readied. Equipment was already on the docks awaiting deliver to the factory floor. We were committed. Unless things went really off the rails, we were pretty much locked into going ahead as planned."

"Did you ever find out who this mystery guy was?" Callie asked.

Again Blake was impressed with her ability to see through to the heart of the matter.

_This woman is amazing._ he thought.

Before he could answer her eyes widened and brightened with insight. "Wait, I know. You asked _Trish_ to find out more about him."

_Truly amazing._ he thought before replying. "You got it in one. She did her Internet magic and found out that he was some big time gangster. It seems that he had some hold over the factory management and wormed his way into getting a cut of the deal."

"That goes on there? Even with their government?" Callie's wonderment was genuine.

"Hey, what can I tell you? Every place has its bad guys. You saw how fast the gangsters came out of the woodwork when the Communists were ousted in Russia." Blake shrugged.

"So what happened?" Callie asked. "I mean, I assume that you did something about him. You're too much of a straight arrow to knowingly crawl into bed with gangsters. And, I assume that the Asian expansion is still going ahead."

"Oh yeah, it is. Well, it was. At least before this. Now I'm not sure. It's rather like the pot calling the kettle black, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I took the information that Trish found to the local authorities. The authorities are wholeheartedly behind the deal because it's giving them a whole new revenue stream. Not just in their country but throughout Asia. We're providing them with cutting edge equipment and knowledge that can be used to really penetrate the growing economies there."

"And....." Callie was almost breathless to learn the outcome.

"And, the big boys swooped in, scooped him up, as well as several of his cronies, and we gave them all the credit. Making them look good greased the wheels so we got a quick resolution to a number of sticking points." Blake paused. His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on something.

Callie, aware of his sudden pensive silence looked to see him deeply in thought. Slowly, something he had said began to reveal itself in a new light. "Blake, how big 'a gangster was this guy you took down?"

Her words took a moment to penetrate his reverie. "What? Oh. Uh, turns out he was the son of some big time international criminal. Kinda their version of a Mafia Don's heir apparent."

"And, because of you he's in prison for.........." she let the question trail off indefinitely.

"For a long time. Actually, because his old man probably has influence over some government officials, they didn't execute him like they normally would. But he's out of the picture pretty much for good."

Callie chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "So, you ruined this Mafia boss's son. Doesn't it strike you as interesting that someone is now trying to ruin your father's son?"

Her simple question went off in his head like a bomb. The bright flash of insight blinded him for a moment. He shot up straight in the seat and stared blankly out the window.

Trish had done the research. They knew that the government would monitor their Internet access but, what if the monitor was connected to the crime family? What better way to avenge themselves than killing the researcher and framing the son?

"So, how long before we hear from Liz?" he asked anxiously.
CHAPTER 28

Will sat beneath a large 'Sampson for Congress' poster. The smile on his face was a milder version of the one on the poster.

"Okay people, it's fourth and goal so we really need to hustle now." His campaign manager couldn't seem to resist using cliché sports sayings at these meetings. He was pacing, sleeves rolled up, clapping his hands for emphasis as he spoke. Micah looked like every movie maker's image of the hard driving, dedicated power behind the man running for office.

As he finished his pep talk he turned to Will. "Any last words boss?"

Will rose from the folding chair wondering if they were specifically designed to torture the lower anatomy. Not betraying an iota of the discomfort the hard metal chair had caused over the last half hour, he took a couple of steps forward. He paused, scanned the mass of eager, dedicated faces and smiled broadly.

"You know," he began in the slow, folksy voice that had become his trademark, "I don't think there has ever been a luckier man than me."

A murmur of protest went up from the gathered campaign staff. Will held up his hand, lowered his head and looked every inch the modest, humble everyman that his campaign portrayed.

"No. No. I mean it." He looked up with a face as sincere as a preacher on Sunday.

"I am truly blessed. Win or lose, I have been blessed to earn your confidence, your commitment, your dedication. But, when we _do_ win this election," he flashed them his 'aw, shucks' smile, "it's going to be because good people like you made it possible with all your hard work."

He looked at them. They were eating out of the palm of his hand. The pause for effect drew out almost painfully. He could see their eagerness to hear his next words.

"And, believe you me, I won't forget who made it happen."

They erupted in applause.

He motioned for silence and the applause tapered off. "You are the true Americans. The true patriots. You're the people who are making it possible to restore a voice in Washington – and we all know I mean the other Washington back east now – " the joke, feeble though it was drew a titter of laughter, "... a voice in Washington for the hard working men and women of this country. Men and women like yourselves."

The applause came back, along with smiles and nods of appreciation.

"Thank you, and God bless each and every one of you." _They never get tired of that one._ he thought as he smiled and shook eagerly extended hands as he waded through the crowd of workers.

Will made his way slowly, deliberately back to his office shaking hands, smiling, and voicing safe platitudes in response to the comments of his volunteer staff. He looked at the faces of his campaign workers without really seeing them. At the door to his office, he turned, waved and gave them one more 'good ole boy' grin before going inside, behind the closed blinds and to work on his real problem.

Susan Fields was waiting. She sat in a chair well out of view of the door. As Will entered she smiled and uncrossed her legs in a way calculated to give him a tantalizing glance at her inner thigh.

Will smiled both appreciatively and knowingly. He knew Susan well. He knew how she operated. Playing the seduction card by flashing some skin told him that she didn't have good news for him. He'd noticed the trick several months ago but never let on that he was aware of it. It was useful to know other people's 'tells'. Useful in poker. Useful in politics.

"Any news?" He kept his tone to 'mildly anxious'. His eyebrows rose slightly, a combination of questioning and worried. He knew the answer already but he played along with her anyway.

"Maybe some." The reply was evasive, tentative, as if she were buying time to think of how to break it.

Susan shifted in the chair and reached for the Styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on his desk.

Taking a sip she, straightened her shoulders. "But I don't think you're going to like it."

Will plopped into the overstuffed leather chair. He leaned forward resting his forearms on the edge of the antique oak desk.

"I'm getting desperate here. I can't believe that your people found her and then lost her."

Susan considered how to broach the subject with him. "I think we have to consider a couple of possibilities here. Then we can figure out what strategy we want to take with this whole thing."

She sipped her coffee again as she watched Will's face for some reaction. He betrayed nothing. Instead he sat staring at her with a vaguely curious look on his face.

"First, we have to consider that, while we know it was Callie's car, we have no way to know that it was her driving."

Will nodded, possibly indicating acceptance or perhaps just wanting her to continue.

Getting no other response, she forged ahead. "If we assume that she was not driving, then we can also assume that the car was stolen from her in Morriston."

Susan continued after Will made a 'keep going' gesture with his hand. "Given that the car was seen coming out of Farmington's headquarters, I did some checking. My sources at the data company that monitors Farmington's security say that a woman from their Dayton office was in the building for about forty-five minutes just before our operatives spotted the car."

Will sat up a bit straighter, paying a bit more attention. His mouth twitched with agitation as his eyes narrowed, focusing sharply on Susan.

"But, a check of the data also shows that same woman being in the Dayton office until two PM local time the same day. It's possible that she had time to fly out here, go to their headquarters and then fly back to Dayton in time to be at work this morning."

Susan paused her report. She wanted the next words to impact Will in the best way possible.

She wanted him to arrive at the correct conclusion himself. Over time, she had learned that telling someone bad news tends to prompt a denial response. But when they ask if the bad news is true, confirming it for them makes it more real to them. "Possible. Not likely but."

Will was obviously mulling over what she had just told him. "Any idea why she might have been out here? How about a check of the airlines?" He picked up an ornamental letter opener from the desk.

Susan could see that this was going to be a bit more difficult than she originally thought.

Susan leaned a little closer. "We don't think she could have taken a corporate jet. None were in Dayton as far as we know. We are sure that she didn't take a charter. None left Dayton in the time frame needed for her to arrive at SeaTac or any of the surrounding commuter airports in time. The info from commercial carriers is taking a bit longer to confirm or deny. There's too much control over that data anymore."

Will leaned back in the chair absently twirling the letter opener against the tip of his index finger. "So, what if it wasn't this exec from Ohio? What then?"

Susan continued to direct him toward the possibility that Callie was allied with Blake. "It's possible that Farmington has enlisted someone we don't know about to pose as the woman. But he, or the woman, would have to have some pretty good connections to get a fake pass made up. Plus, what would he need from the corporate offices that would justify that kind of risk?"

"Cash stash?" Will mused idly. "Any activity in his bank accounts lately?"

"No. None. I suppose he might have had enough money stashed there. He certainly would need some money, especially if he's planning a run. We've been monitoring his known bank accounts and those of his family. No activity in any of his personal accounts and nothing extraordinary for the family."

She paused as a look of concern momentarily flashed across Will's face.

"Don't panic. The people monitoring things don't have any idea that you're interested in this. They think it has to do with the Asian expansion that Farmington's is planning. They have been told that Farmington's is trying to do an end run and, as far as they know, they're protecting their financial interests." She noted the relaxation in his shoulders and neck muscles.

Will resumed an air of confidence that Susan knew he didn't really have. "Anything beyond that?"

Susan took a sip of the coffee. It had gone cold, much like her effort to lead Will to the correct conclusion. Realizing that she was going to have to risk his becoming argumentative, she steeled herself.

_This is the hard part._ she thought deliberately setting the cup down on the corner of the desk.

"Yes, there's one other possibility." She paused to marshal her thoughts.

"I think that, since we haven't seen any activity on Callie's bank card; since she hasn't contacted any of the friends or business associates we know about; we have to consider the possibility that she might have thrown in with Farmington."

She waited for the explosion of temper that was sure to come.

Will rocketed forward in the chair and onto his feet. He slammed the palms of his hands down onto the desktop and shouted, "NO!" The letter opener he had been holding was driven into the leather desktop pad so hard that it left an imprint that was unlikely to come out. He just stood there his rigid, enraged face and posture daring her to continue.

Susan wasn't completely prepared for his display of aggression but she didn't flinch or react to his outburst. Outside the glass walls of his private office, the campaign staff paused. The sound of his anger had penetrated the glass and wood. No one could see inside but it was certain that the candidate was furious with someone or something.

Aware that he had been heard, Will refrained from berating Susan for her suggestion. The murmur of activity slowly resumed.

Susan waited until the hum reached its customary pitch before resuming her discussion with Will. "I know that's not what you want to hear but, we have to at least consider the worst case scenario."

He continued to glare menacingly at her, like a cat staring at helpless prey.

"What if he stole her car and in doing so has kidnapped her? A carjacking. You know." Susan paused again to let the possibility sink in. This is what she hoped to avoid.

He was most angry at her implied suggestion that Callie had 'betrayed' him. Loyalty was not only expected by Will Sampson, it was demanded. If he felt that someone had betrayed him, he became a ruthless and implacable enemy. She knew he would stop at nothing to protect what he saw as his honor.

"If..." she emphasized the word strongly for Will's benefit. "If Farmington has her, he's had plenty of time to work at breaking down her defenses. She could be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. As a hostage, taken by an accused murderer and cut off from everyone she knows, she might do anything to survive. Think about Patti Hearst in the seventies."

He didn't shift his gaze from her. Will's voice was cold, angry, but softer. His gaze bored into her searching for any indication that she was lying to him. "Hostage huh? Stockholm Syndrome?"

"Yes, she is in fear for her life and, because he has removed any hope of rescue from her situation, she will do whatever he asks." Susan didn't really believe what she was saying.

She thought it more likely that Callie had either chosen to disappear to embarrass Will or, if she was with Blake, that she was weak enough, naïve enough, sappy enough to believe that he was innocent and that she could actually help him.

Susan knew from Will's constant complaining that Callie had a habit of hiring 'lost causes'. People who gave her some sob story and whined until she helped them out.

_I just don't get what you see in a sniveling sap like her._ Susan thought as she watched Will for some indication that what she was saying was registering with him.

"A hostage." He rolled the words around in his mouth, savoring them, testing them as he backed down into his chair.

"Well, that could certainly explain her disappearance. Maybe he plans to use her as a bargaining chip if he gets cornered." Will resumed twirling the letter opener.

"Perhaps." Susan allowed herself to relax slightly. She had expected a much worse time getting him to accept the possibility that Callie was with Blake Farmington.

"This can also work to our political advantage." She saw his interest pique.

"Let's say that Callie doesn't surface before the press conference on Friday. We can have you talk about your fear that she is in the clutches of a desperate criminal. You can make a heartfelt statement of concern for her safety and quick return."

Susan could see that, cynical as it was, the idea of portraying himself as the concerned man who perseveres in the face of adversity appealed to Will's political sense of drama and opportunism.

"Plus, it points out the ineptitude of your opponent's protégé. It asks the question 'Why was he allowed to escape in the first place?' and 'Why hasn't he been caught yet?' You will have the chance to speak to the safety of the community and how under your leadership, things will be tougher on criminals, no matter how privileged they are."

Will's expression suddenly clouded over. The spark of opportunity gave way to a worried scowl as he grew concerned again. "What if she comes back before then?"

Susan smiled inwardly. _He's so predictable._

She took a deep breath, wanting to seem thoughtful, concerned, yet prepared. "Depending on where she's been and why, we either go ahead with the engagement announcement or we imply that she has been through a terrible ordeal and is resting under doctor's orders. Either way we gain points in the ratings."

She knew that, with the election mere weeks away, every point in the polls counted.

"And, if she really has helped Farmington?" Worry and anger warred for control of Will's face. He was beginning to have serious doubts and Susan wanted desperately to feed them. This could be her chance to separate Will from that woman.

"We still use your concern to boost your standing and then, after the election, we quietly ease her out of the picture. Something like 'her emotionally shattered state' makes her unable to go on. We'll spin it that you're still concerned about her wellbeing but that you can't ask her to put herself through anything more. It won't really matter at that point. You'll be so dynamic, so effective in Congress that no one will notice much less remember by the next election."

The flattery worked its magic, strengthening his ego and salving his conscience. "Well, if that's how it has to be."

Will looked at her one last time, seriously but no longer threateningly. "Just keep me abreast of developments. _Understand_?"

Susan feigned contrition. Her every fiber oozed acquiescence. "Of course Will. You're the boss."

She rose from her seat. Will had moved on to another concern. He was studying the latest poll information.

As she shut the door to his office she heard him mutter, "Damn right I'm the boss."

She smiled with satisfaction as the latch clicked home.
CHAPTER 29

Callie sat quietly in the little green wagon. It was out of sight from the main road, it's color now dulled by a fine layer of dust blended into the shadows and surrounding foliage. She waited and watched like Blake had taught her. He was very clear that she should not go immediately to the pick-up site. He gave her a crash course on hunting for hunters. She was grateful that he had not argued about her handling this errand. He was concerned, certainly. He had become very protective of her, almost overly protective since she told him about the escape from the dark sedan. In one way it was charming and reassuring. In another it was a bit disconcerting.

But after hearing how she had escaped her pursuers, he seemed to have more confidence in her. Certainly, luck had played a part in her escape but he also had to acknowledge that she had used her intellect to recognize opportunities and exploit them to her best advantage. He still wasn't comfortable with her taking risks but he appeared more willing to accept that she could handle herself well in a crisis.

Callie checked the dashboard clock again. A half an hour had passed. She was sure that no one was in the little cemetery nor was anyone watching it. She left her car on the small dirt track behind the mowed grass lawn and walked slowly to the line of trees on the uphill side of the memorial park. There, under the third tree she found the package. She picked it up and walked back to her car, carefully scanning the area in front of her and to the right.

_No cars, no people. No one watching._ she reassured herself.

She placed the package on the back deck of the wagon, throwing one of the blankets over it in what she hoped looked like a casual manner. She caught a whiff of earthy loam as she fanned the blanket out. It reminded her of the night of passion under the stars she had shared with Blake. She doubted if she would dust the blanket off any time soon.

Callie pulled up outside the single story, flat roofed wooden building. Rolls of farm fencing stood at the side of it, pinioned in by long metal stock gates. A haphazard stack of water troughs looked as if they would teeter over into the hay bales behind them.

She stepped out of the car. Small puffs of dust rose from beneath her shoes as they touched the sandy soil. Callie smiled a little to herself as she studied the curtain of souvenir t-shirts hanging from a line stretched along the length of the store's porch. They helped the incongruous upright chrome racks, filled with hand tools, to obscure the window decals advertising a couple popular brands of denims and work clothes.

As she entered the store she wiped her feet on a rubber mat emblazoned with the logo of a chainsaw manufacturer.

"Oh honey! That's mighty sweet of you but, nothin' keeps the dust out at this time of year." The warm words matched expression of the woman behind the counter.

Callie guessed her to be in her mid to late fifties. She was stoutly built but her arms spoke of a lifetime of physical activity. Her hair looked like mixed strands of gold and silver. It was arranged in a loose bun, vaguely reminiscent of a style you might see in a Victorian postcard.

Warm gray eyes matched the friendly voice. "Now, what can I do for you today?"

Callie lowered her head, as if embarrassed. "I need to buy some new clothes." She let the words linger between them.

"Uh – huh." The upturned corners of the woman's mouth neither rose nor dropped. She waited patiently for Callie to continue.

"It's kinda' embarrassing." Callie looked up with an expression that pleaded with her listener to not be judgmental.

"My husband and I came up to camp." She paused again.

"That's nice. Good time of year for it." The pleasant voice tinkled musically.

"We have a cat."

The store clerk's expression changed to something between confusion and worry. "Never heard of anyone camping with a cat before."

Callie hadn't expected that response. It flustered her momentarily which in fact improved the sincerity of her story. "Oh. Oh no. No, no, the cat is at home."

That earned her another "Uh – huh", albeit one that still sounded confused.

Well, it seems the cat didn't want us to go away so she........" Callie waited for understanding that didn't dawn on the older woman.

After waiting several seconds she was forced to continue. "She did something very naughty in the suitcase. Something we didn't discover until we got here."

The first 'oh' from the clerk was fairly neutral. It was quickly followed by one that reflected both her surprise and understanding. The older woman composed herself and, in a voice laced with sympathy said, "Yes. I can see how you would need some new clothes for yourselves."

She bustled around the end of the counter, motioning for Callie to follow her. They made their way past a rack of fishing poles, bins of twine, cord and rope in both natural and brilliantly iridescent colors to an aisle whose end cap featured battery operated singing fish, jackalopes, and even one squirrel.

"Here we go." The clerk had warmed to her subject. She gestured proudly at a double sided aisle neatly stacked with shirts, denims, socks and underwear. Men's clothing was on one side, women's on the other. Although the selection wasn't large, it was adequate to their needs.

"Thank you so much." Callie began prowling the women's clothing first.

The receding voice of the older woman cheerfully announced, "I'll get'cha a basket. Be right back." Callie could hear her bustling toward the front of the store.

She selected two pairs of denims, four tops, and two 'three packs' of very sensible cotton panties for herself. She also picked up two packages of white athletic socks.

The woman returned with an oversized hand basket. It had wheels and an extended handle. Callie dropped the clothing into it and turned her attention to the men's side of the aisle.

The clerk, mercifully, had left her after delivering the basket. Callie couldn't imagine her response to the color that rose in her cheeks as she selected similar items for Blake. She didn't think that she could use the newlyweds excuse since she had already been talking about their cat.

She had noticed the size tag inside Blake's denims the morning after their night of passion under the stars. She was grateful for that since stopping for new clothes had been an impulse on her part and not something in the original plan for the day.

She had to guess at shirt size and sock size but, having studied his muscled chest from a distance as well as intimately, she was pretty sure of her choices.

Everything was rung up in an orderly fashion. The clerk called out the price of every item as if announcing it aloud confirmed it. Each piece of clothing and package was neatly placed inside one of two double layered brown paper bags. The printed fronts proudly announced the County Fair, from last year. Heavy paper handles stood out from the open tops like the ears of an eager dog.

The clerk totaled the sale and looked at Callie inquiringly. "Now, will that be credit or debit?" She slid the gray PIN pad hopefully toward her.

"Actually, it'll be cash." Callie counted out the bills inside her purse, fearing the clerk would have a stroke if she saw the thick wad of bills.

The money ruffled like worn playing cards as she handed it over.

The clerk counted the used twenties and passed Callie's change back to her.

After putting it away, Callie lifted her double bagged purchase down from the counter. She beamed at the older woman and chirped, "Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

"Anytime honey. Now you be careful out there." The clerk realized that the advice could be interpreted a couple of different ways. "With camping I mean. Snakes are out you know."

Callie said she would as she turned sideways to get the bags out the door.

An older man came in the back door of the store as the clerk stood watching Callie pull back onto the blacktop.

"Good sale?" he asked hopefully.

" _Very_ good sale."She turned to look affectionately at the weather beaten face of her husband.

"Nice girl. Good manners. But still, city folk. Cat messed in her suitcase coming up here. Had to replace their campin' clothes."

Her expression dimmed a bit. "Don't know why they all think that we've never heard of a credit card though. Just like all the rest of 'em, she had a wad of cash with her."

The older woman shrugged as she minimized the accounts display on the computer monitor and went back to reading the national news Website.

"Someday I have to meet this woman." Blake watched Callie empty the contents of the manila package onto the trestle table.

Out slid two burn phones and a single charger that could be plugged into the car's cigarette lighter or hot spot. There were also two packets of paper individually bound by a rubber band as well as a single sheet of densely packed script. The hand was so crabbed, it almost looked like scribbling to Blake.

He was pretty sure that the sticky note on the thickest sheaf of paper read 'Blake' and the thinner one was labeled for Callie. The single sheet was addressed to Callie alone. There was also a small packet of money bound with a note probably read 'Change'.

Although curious about why she would have her own packet, Callie knew that Liz always wrote outline notes to help people decipher huge chunks of data. Mercifully, she had known Liz long enough to have a pretty good idea of how to decipher her abysmal handwriting.

As she began to read the note, Blake reached for his packet.

She put her hand onto the pile of papers, pinning them to the table. "Wait."

Blake withdrew his hand, a confused, perturbed look on his face. A wave of warming anger seemed to emanate from him. He wanted to get started straightening up the mare's nest of his life. He didn't want to wait now that things looked like they were beginning to break.

He took a deep breath and counted to ten, albeit very quickly. His eyes cut quickly to Callie's face, demanding an answer to the unspoken question of why she was thwarting him now.

Sensing his agitation at being delayed, Callie smiled reassuringly at him. She found it was getting easier to read and understand his shifting emotions. She was also learning how to communicate with him. "Liz's notes are frequently useful. Let's see what she has to say first."

Blake nodded his grudging acceptance. After all, Callie knew Liz. She knew the way she operated and, if she said that it was useful to read the notes first then he had to accept that. As he waited, he noted with gratitude that the packets were printed on what looked like a laser printer. He snorted softly, ironically, as he recognized that he couldn't imagine wading through reams of Liz's handwriting.

Callie finished reading the note. She put it down, her hand resting on it as if it might flee her grasp if left untouched. An uncertain, distant look came over her as she stared at a point in space somewhere outside the cabin.

Blake could read concern and confusion as they flitted across her face. She was again chewing provocatively on her lush, plump lower lip. He realized that it appealed to him precisely because it made her lips look fuller, more inviting.

Rousing from her reverie, Callie spoke slowly, deliberately at first. As she went on, the meter of her speech grew more normal.

"Odd, there's nothing about what's in the packets. But she says something hinky's going on. Apparently, people have been hanging around the coffee shack. Liz was there the other day and Barry was really distant. When he gave her the latte she ordered, it had a note tucked into the heat guard sleeve. The note said that Barry is being watched too and that they should not be seen together."

"Does she say who it is that's watching things?" Blake's curiosity had a predatory edge to it. "I mean is it the cops or someone else?"

Callie referred back to the note tracing under the lines of scrawl with her index finger. It skipped lightly from one line to the next. "She says it's clear that whoever it is has been working hard to melt into the background."

She became intensely, sensually aware of Blake's fingers rasping against his beard stubble traveling back and forth along his strong jaw line before coming to rest in the longish hair at the back of his head. He twined the strands through his long, intensely masculine fingers before forcefully combing them straight again. "I'd think cops would be more overt, wouldn't you?"

Callie suppressed the warm feeling growing in the core of her in response to his casually masculine action. _This is not the right time to be distracted._ she chastised herself.

Feeling the flush on her cheeks, she lowered her head and resumed scanning the letter. She found herself making a soft humming sound as she read, almost as if the noise would help drive away the strong attraction she felt for Blake.

"Ah! Here. She says 'I don't think they're cops because no one's getting asked any questions.' She's goes on to say that there seem to be several of them and they seem to be rotating where they set up each day."

She snorted derisively. "Like no one is going to notice them. We are very aware of our customers and the folks around the shack. Have to be if you aren't going to get ripped off."

Blake looked at her quizzically. "You really do that much business?"

"Hey, at an average two bucks a cup for regular coffee and around three-fifty for specialty drinks, it piles up, and quickly. On weekends we do three cash drops in the day, not counting the evening deposit."

Blake whistled, long and low. His pursed lips looked very sexy to her. She wanted to kiss them but didn't want him to think she was throwing herself at him.

If he wanted her, he was going to have to make the move. She wasn't about to get involved in this 'hot passion, cold indifference' game he seemed to be playing. She had too much pride and self respect for that.

"No wonder that faction wanted to push the coffee stand idea. Spread out over a large market, that could amount to _real_ money."

She glared at him. _Cold indifference hell_ , she thought, _he's just plain insensitive and self serving_. "Yeah, it could if your people understood that it's not just about pushing high end drinks." Her tone left no doubt about how she felt.

Blake winced inwardly. He realized that he seemed to be agreeing with the policy that had forced Callie out of her original stand and made her start all over from scratch.

He was terribly chagrined. "Callie, I ..."That's all the farther he got before she cut him off.

"Listen buster. It's real money even in terms of a single stand. I employ one person full time and five others part time. The part timers are young kids who get a chance to learn about things like ethics, fairness, quality, customer service, as well as business. Working for a corporation all they learn about is cutting corners to keep cost down and getting people to accept second rate service and goods because there's a clever marketing department behind it all."

Blake watched the passion flash in those green eyes. Her auburn hair was slightly tousled. She brushed it out of her face with fingers that cried out to be kissed. She was not a woman to do things by half measures.

"Mea culpa." He beat his broad chest dramatically with a closed fist. "I was about to apologize for being a lout."

He gave her one of those slow, bashful smiles she found so very attractive.

"Truce?" he asked with a hammy look of contrition.

She struggled to suppress the laughter welling up inside her. He was too charming for her own good.

She knew that, but she couldn't deny that she was irresistibly drawn to him, no matter how unwise that probably was. She suspected that this was a man with whom she could spend her entire life and never grow tired of him. She yearned for a man like Blake who could be her partner, her true partner. Someone to compliment her own personality. Someone who worked honestly on shared issues and supported her unreservedly, unquestioningly when she needed support. Someone who would be interesting, challenging, even surprising all lifelong.

With proper gravity she extended her hand to him. "Okay, truce."

The touch of his hand shot bolts of hot yearning through her. She struggled to suppress them but she couldn't. Heat reddened her cheeks again.

Blake allowed his hand to linger, enclosing hers. He reveled in the warmth of her touch, the softness of her skin, the smell of her as she stood a mere arms-length away.

He wanted her with every fiber of his being but he held back.

Much though he wanted to, he would not permit himself to overwhelm and possess her.

She was not a conquest to be made but rather a rare prize to be won.

An awkward silence hung in the air like ozone after a lightning strike as they reluctantly unclasped their hands.

Blake broke the silence."Right. Truce."

Callie had seen the smoldering desire in his eyes. Felt it radiate from him. And, then suddenly it disappeared. Disappointment washed over her as she questioned whether she had actually seen and felt those things or merely wanted to.

Blake spoke with forced casualness. "Well, does Liz have any other news?"

Callie looked at the single sheet of paper forgotten in her other hand. She was frustrated with Blake's inconsistency. In her sudden anger at him, she had crumpled the page in her fist. She placed it on the table and smoothed it out.

"Uh. Yeah. She says that she has been avoiding Barry so that the watchers don't become suspicious and start watching her. So far, she hasn't seen anyone following her or around her place." Her voice carried a rime of frost.

Blake nodded, simply saying, "Good. Good thinking."

Callie swallowed her disappointment and read a bit further. "She bought a third burn phone for herself and programmed its number into our phones. She figured it was safer than chancing someone tracking calls to her personal phone."

Blake had that 'you just lost me' look on his face. She explained, "If someone became suspicious that Liz was in contact with us, they might be able to access her cell records using her name and then track the numbers that call to and from her phone. Once they have those numbers, they can begin to scan networks. Then it would only be a matter of time before they found where we are by pinpointing the location of the cell towers these phones use. With a third burn phone activated under a fake name, no one can tie it to her so they can't monitor it."

Understanding replaced confusion. Blake nodded, again saying, "Someday I _really_ need to meet this woman."

Although she was sure that Liz wasn't Blake's 'type' Callie was surprised by the intensity of the feelings of insecurity and even jealousy that sluiced through her.
CHAPTER 30

The watchers were back. Barry noticed the now familiar faces loitering nearby. _Wonder how long they'll sit there today?_ he mused.

It was clear to him that they were not a threat to the coffee shack or any of the nearby businesses.

_Most likely they are working for that creep Sampson._ Barry thought.

The watchers had turned up just a few days after Will's last 'interrogation' visit. At first, Barry hadn't taken much notice of them. They just loitered around the area. Not that people hanging around without any apparent purpose was that unusual. In fact, idle shoppers were the driving force for the promenade's businesses. Idle shoppers tended to be impulse buyers. Plus, idle shoppers were more tempted to loiter over coffee or tea and a pastry.

What made the watchers stand out was their demeanor. Shoppers chatter, laugh, and interact with each other in a relaxed manner. The watchers wandered up and down. They sat in the mini park on the median. Sometimes they sat in their car. But they never bought anything. They didn't laugh. They didn't even smile. They just watched.

"Hey Barry." chirped Toni as she came in the back door.

She was one of the temp workers at the stand. Toni was studying art history at Northern Washington University. She was just over twenty, enthusiastic and, most surprisingly, dependable. Unlike some of the students Callie had hired in the past, Toni took her obligations at work seriously. It didn't hurt that she was a scholarship student. Unlike many of those other kids, she didn't have mom and dad's money to fall back on. She needed the job to pay her bills so she honored her responsibilities.

She stashed her 'way cool' teal, turquoise, and lime green printed vinyl bag on the shelf with spare cups, lids and protective sleeves. Barry had once joked that the bag looked like a chunk of a peacock. Toni had just smiled and said, 'Yeah!'

Toni saw Barry looking out the service window. He had that casual 'I'm watching but looking like I'm bored' posture. Nothing much got past Barry's notice.

"Still there?" she peeped.

Barry appreciated her unusual combination of a perky nature with a willingness to be verbally brief.

"Yep." he replied as he turned to clean out the steaming pitcher. The hiss of steam and hot water would have drowned out any further comment.

As the squeal of the steam subsided Toni asked, "Who are they today? Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee again?"

Looking up as he dried and replaced the pitcher Barrie made a long, wry face. His left hand scratched the top of his head with a motion that looked like a spider doing pushups. "Nope. Stan and Ollie today."

Toni picked up the joke right away. "Oh." She pretended to look around in embarrassment and waggled the fingers of both hands at the base of her throat as if she were nervously playing with a necktie.

Barry snorted with laughter. They had taken to naming the watchers for comedy pairs in the movies. He truly prized Toni's familiarity with classic film.

Barry had his back turned toward the service window as he spoke. "Gotta go water Callie's plants today."

A familiar, unwanted, voice intruded into their conversation. "Good. I'll go with you."

Barry turned quickly to see the plastic smile of Will Sampson leering through the service window.

Barry struggled to keep his dislike of the candidate from showing on his face. Instead, he flashed his best 'customer service smile'. "Thanks, but I wouldn't want to mess with your schedule this close to Election Day."

Will broadened his insincere smile. "No trouble at all. We have to look after our mutual friend's interests, don't we?"

To all appearances, Barry and Will were cordial acquaintances. Anyone watching them from a distance might even think them casual friends. But once in hearing range, no one could fail to notice the whip-crack of sarcasm and loathing that peppered their exchange. The tension between them was not diminished by the smiles and quiet pitch of their words.

Barry slid the key into the lock and paused before turning it. He looked over his shoulder and tried one last time to dissuade Will. "Really, I can handle this. It's just watering a few plants."

Will didn't flinch. "Yeah. But, this way, if something has gone wrong, or if something goes missing," his sneer punctuated the thinly veiled threat, "you have a witness."

Barry couldn't help but flinch inwardly. Was Will setting him up? It would be so easy for him to make it look like Barry had burgled Callie's house. While she might not believe him capable of doing that, she wasn't around and Will's connections would make the cops listen to him instead of Barry.

Mentally shrugging, Barry knew that he couldn't fail to go inside now that he was here. Will would interpret it as an indication that he had something to hide. Barry unlocked the door and put the key back inside the fake stone. He replaced it in the small rock garden next to the step. Opening the door, Barry entered and called out just in case she had returned home unannounced. "Callie. You home?"

He heard Will snort behind him. Barry thought that it might seem ridiculous but, if Callie was back and just hadn't told anyone for some reason, he didn't want to embarrass or frighten her by wandering into the house unannounced.

Silence answered Barry's question. He walked across the foyer and started down the hall to the kitchen. Barry glanced to his left into the living room as he walked past the wide doorway opening onto it. He took another step and then stopped so abruptly that Will ran into him from behind.

"What the hell are you doing Johnson?" Will snarled.

"Someone's been in here." Barry's reply was quiet, cautious. He kept his tone subdued, not knowing if the burglars were still in the house. He had warned Callie about keeping her spare key so near the front door. Granted, the fake rock blended into the garden border well and it was a whole lot more secure than under a flower pot. But it was still too much in the open for anyone to see.

Will looked into the room, seeming to examine it carefully.

"Yeah. Right." He didn't even try to hide his sarcasm or contempt for Barry's concern.

The room showed no obvious signs of disarray. The plants were all in their pots lining the window sills. Nothing looked obviously out of place. There were no books thrown from their shelves, no overturned furniture, not even dimples in the carpeting where furniture had been moved and put back in a slightly different position. To anyone who was not intimately familiar with Callie and her habits everything looked fine. Because he worked with Callie and had spent time discussing business matters with her, Barry was aware of her obsession with order.

"I'm serious. Look at the bookshelves." Barry was getting tired of Will hounding and deriding him. His irritation came through in his voice.

Will glanced at the shelves reflexively. "What? They look fine."

"You really don't know her very well, do you?" Barry was no longer trying to hide his disdain for Will. He didn't understand what Callie had seen in this man. It also was obvious that Will didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

Will was growing equally impatient with Barry. "Don't tell me. They're supposed to be empty and some book pushing vandal has stocked them, right?"

Barry glared at him. "No, the edges aren't even." His gaze didn't leave Will's face. Not a flicker or understanding appeared there.

Will's face was growing red with escalating anger. "Yeah?"

Barry shook his head in disgust. "Callie is very particular about how things appear on shelves. The bottles at work have to all be label forward and evenly spaced. She's the same way about her books. The spines all have to line up evenly, regardless of the size of the book."

"And they all need to be about an inch from the edge. As you can plainly see, that is not the case." Barry gestured emphatically toward the shelves with both hands.

Will looked again and could see that several of the book spines were unevenly aligned and there was no precision as to how far from the edge of the shelf they rested. "So, she was in a hurry when she left and didn't have time to be so anal."

Barry walked into the room and looked at Callie's desk. Papers were haphazardly stacked in piles on it. Again, this wasn't her usual habit. No matter how chaotic things got, Callie always arranged her paperwork in neat, even edged piles at the end of each day. She hated coming in to a messy desk. Barry had seen her come close to an outburst of temper once when someone had carelessly put an overnight letter on her desk and disturbed the piles.

"Yeah, well, she wasn't in a hurry the night before she left and _look_ at the state of her desk."

Will was growing annoyed with Barry's insistence that someone had been in Callie's home. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at here Johnson, but there is _nothing_ to indicate that there's been a break-in. If you're going to water the damned plants, then do it."

Barry stood his ground. He didn't like Will Sampson and he certainly wasn't intimidated by him either. "I think we should call the police and report this."

"Oooh yeah! And we can show them the uneven books and papers. Why didn't I think of that?" Sarcasm laced his retort. "You know it's a crime to make false reports, right? Do you think anyone's going to believe someone's been in here for heaven knows what reason because a couple of books are out of line? Get real Johnson."

If Barry had been alone, he would not have hesitated to call the police and report the possible break-in. But, with Will present, he could see himself being blamed for wasting police resources. Will would love to cause trouble for him. That was no secret.

Barry weighed the odds and then announced, "I'm going to make a quick walk through the house, just to be sure."

He didn't wait for Will to respond but instead began to walk through each room. The only other room that showed any signs that someone had disturbed it was the bedroom. Barry never had any reason to be in Callie's bedroom before but he couldn't help noticing that there were several things that looked slightly out of position.

Will dogged his every step. His demeanor indicated that he didn't trust Barry and that he was protecting Callie from whatever misdeed Barry was contemplating.

Barry couldn't dismiss the nagging question of whether Will was trying to protect Callie's house or if he was really trying to prevent him from discovering something.

Without any obvious signs of damage or theft, Barry recognized that summoning the police would prove futile, especially with Will there to deride and denigrate him every step of the way. He didn't know why anyone would break in and search through Callie's books and papers but he was sure that he would never be able to prove that it had happened.

"Satisfied?" The snide question from Will betrayed his growing impatience.

Barry wondered why Will had even come with him. He also knew that asking would only make matters worse. The last thing he needed was to get into an altercation inside his boss's house with his boss's supposed boyfriend who just happened to be a strong law and order candidate for the Congress. He could see the headlines now, 'Congressional candidate foils burglary by dishonest employee'.

"No, but it'll have to do." He pushed past Will and through the doorway. Barry went into the kitchen without further comment and began filling the old plastic juice jugs that Callie kept on the back of the sink for plant watering.

Barry finished the chore without any further comments from Will. He dried off the drips around the front of the sink knowing that Callie would not want to come home to water spots on the countertop.

He replaced the dishrag and turned to see Will coldly staring at him. He kept the conversation short by announcing, "Done."

Will did not reply, but instead motioned for Barry to precede him to the door. Shrugging off the slight that impugned his honesty, Barry mockingly dipped his head in assent and walked down the hallway. He opened the front door, twisted the knob to the locked position, and held the door open for Will. Will exited without any comment. As Barry went out the door, he noticed that Will was several paces down the walkway that curved toward the driveway.

Just loudly enough to be heard by Barry but not loud enough to call attention to himself, Will asked, "Shouldn't you turn on the porch light?"

Will never broke step getting down the walk. He hastened toward his car parked in front of the house next door.

Reflexively, Barry pushed the door open and stepped inside.

From down the street a camera with a long telephoto lens whirred and clicked to capture his entering the house.
CHAPTER 31

Something in Callie's demeanor had started the argument again. It was an argument without words but Blake knew it was an argument never the less. He didn't quite understand what caused the emotional ebb and flow of this woman's emotions. Rather than risk escalating the tension of the situation, he took the packet Liz prepared for him outside. He found a comfortable place to perch just at the edge of the clearing. From that vantage spot, he could see the cabin door but he also gave Callie enough room to calm down.

He whistled softly as he read through the materials that Liz had sent about Trish. "How could I have worked with her for all this time and never known what she was up to?" he asked himself aloud.

The wildflowers shifted softly in the wind as if unwilling to disturb his reading. Dappled shade from the nearby trees traced soft, slowly shifting patterns of light and shadow over their gently bobbing heads.

Blake looked up and saw Callie come out of the doorway. She stood, staring vaguely in his direction. Then, suddenly she seemed to collapse onto the bench outside the door. Her head fell into her hands and the papers scattered on the ground. Even across the clearing it was clear to Blake that she was sobbing profoundly.

In a single swift move he was on his feet and running to her, his paperwork clenched tightly in his tough, masculine hand. He ran toward her with the force of a rushing mountain stream. The power and determination of his movements were irresistible.

Scooping up a large stone as he passed it, he slammed the papers down on the far end of the bench and weighted them with the stone. What they contained was so dangerous, so damaging that he was unwilling to risk them finding their way to other eyes.

He fell to his knees in front of Callie. His voice pleaded with her. "Callie, what's wrong?"

The weight of her sobs crushed his heart. She was crying so hard that he could see she was having trouble breathing. Her lithe body shook and shuddered even more violently as she pulled in ragged gulps of air. As she exhaled, agonized torrents of tears gushed from her.

She did not resist as he sat next to her and pulled her comfortingly to his muscular chest. His strong arms enveloped her in a cocoon of caring and affection. She felt some of the initial shock and anguish begin to melt. Still she could not control herself enough to respond to him. She only knew that somehow his solid reassurance made her torment easier to bear.

Blake's voice grew insistent as he barraged her with his worried questions.

"Are you alright?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Callie, what's wrong?"

Each silence from her was a torture that tore at his very soul.

From a back pocket in his jeans he produced a ridiculously crisp white linen handkerchief. She took it and wiped away some of the tears. Her breathing was still coming in gasps but it was more controlled than it had been just moments before. She had not felt such tenderness and concern from a man since she was a little girl when Uncle Mac would cradle away her nightmares. She sensed the warmth and worry emanating from Blake.

Finally, between lingering sobs, she managed to speak. Her voice soft, barely audible. But to Blake, the words of reassurance were as loud as trumpets. "Not hurt. Not physically at least."

A fresh round of tears welled up and she was momentarily overwhelmed by them. She wiped her eyes again and then pointed to the papers on the ground.

One or two had blown against the stump he used for splitting fire wood. They had become ensnared by the fragments of wood and bark that mulched the area around the stump. Blake glanced toward the papers. Even though the torrent of tears had passed he refused to release her from his embrace.

Callie sniffled and haltingly said, "I'm ... okay ....now." She even managed a wet smile that drooped a little at the corners.

Blake looked at her gravely, disbelievingly. "Are you sure?"

She nodded and pointed again at the sheets of paper covered with impersonal laser jet printing.

Blake reluctantly released her and began to retrieve them. He could see that they were numbered so he began to sort them without paying any attention to their content. As he returned to where Callie was sitting, he noticed that she had calmed down a bit more. She was no longer panicking and sobbing. Her face now wore an expression of shock and incredulity.

He extended the papers toward her. Suddenly, again aware of his presence, Callie looked at him, then at the papers in his hand. She shook her head, gestured toward the pages. "Read."

"You don't mind?" Blake queried.

"No. Just read it." Her voice was numb, exhausted, almost detached.

Blake began to read the words that had so terribly upset Callie.

After finishing the last page he sat down next to her, shaking his head in disbelief. Tenderly, he took her hand in his, enveloping it. He gently pulled her against him, cradling her. Callie had stopped crying but she was obviously in shock.

He gently kissed the top of her head and smoothing the hair from her eyes. Anything he could do or say seemed so inadequate. "Callie, I am so sorry."

She nuzzled deeper into the warmth of his embrace. A soft sound escaped her. She felt so safe, so right when she was close to him. Yet she was afraid to believe this was anything more than empathy and concern for the shocking news she had just received.

Blake continued to stroke her hair, watching the light play from golden to deep burnt orange across it. "I had no idea Trish was your half sister."

Callie sat up and looked at him. "I know." she said in a subdued voice.

"It's just that ... well, to lose her before I ever had a chance to know her. It's ..... it's terrible." Her voice was choked with emotion.

"I would guess that's why she took over your application from the domestic expansion people. Somehow she found out about you and wanted to make contact after all these years."

Blake looked again at the bundle of papers that had upset Callie so badly.

They contained the online diary of Trish Martins, or at least those parts of it which dealt with her long lost sister, Callie Adams.
CHAPTER 32

Callie was emotionally exhausted. The shock, grief, and confusion of learning that Trish Martins was her older half-sister had drained her of energy. She felt hopelessly caught in a storm that tossed her from one emotion to another. Despite feeling drained; she found herself going over the new and disturbing information again and again. Blake's presence was reassuring and even comforting, but even his support could not help her quell the raging tides of her sentiments.

She read through the entire diary twice and then, having marked certain parts, reread those selections another time. It was obvious that Trish had begun keeping a diary quite early on. Her journaling had begun in a bound diary which she had obviously scanned and carefully arranged. Later, as she got access to a computer, she chronicled her life in electronic form.

Callie read some of the earliest entries that had been scanned. They were the thoughts and feelings of a frightened ten year old girl _._

Dear Diary, Auntie Ruth would be mad if she caught me writing in you. She doesn't want to remember Daddy and Sarah. She says that Sarah isn't my mommy. She says Daddy doesn't deserve to be remembered because he married Sarah.

A later entry said, _Dear Diary, I had another dream about Allie. She was crying and I couldn't find her. I got upset and cried too. Auntie Ruth came in and asked what was wrong. When I told her I couldn't find Allie she got mad. She said I wasn't supposed to dream about 'Allie. 'Allie is make believe._

Reading through the earlier entries, it became clear that Trish's Aunt Ruth held on to a lot of anger toward their father. Apparently she felt that he should not have married again after the death of Trish's mother. When he did remarry, Aunt Ruth became very, very angry. She believed that he had betrayed her sister's memory and, especially after Callie was born, she came to hate him.

Later entries from Trish's adolescence revealed her determination to learn about her father, her step-mother, and her half sister. They also revealed the growing duplicity in her. Trish had learned that she would be punished for mentioning her lost family. There was a long trail of spankings, deprivations, and other abuses to punish Trish when she was 'disloyal' to her mother's memory. Aunt Ruth's anger at their father and particularly at Callie's mother permeated every part of Trish's childhood. Out of the need to survive Trish learned to wear two faces.

Throughout Trish's diary she chronicled her longing to find Callie. The diary also told the story of simmering hatred toward the woman who sought to blot out all memory of her parents and sister. Her Aunt Ruth became a negative focus for Trish, the reason for everything that went wrong in her life.

As Trish grew into adolescence, the old woman sank deeper and deeper into an alcohol fueled depression. She became more abusive, more resentful of having to care for Trish at the very time when Trish needed support and guidance the most.

"Oh Trish, why couldn't you have come with me to live with Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac?" Callie's words revealed how she ached for the abuses that her sister suffered at the hands of a bitter, cruel woman.

About the time she turned fifteen, Trish's entries took on a more sinister tone. She began to write about her fantasies of harming her aunt. Some of the plots were terribly elaborate, and very cruel. Her aunt's drunken rages became more violent and there were several mentions of injuries. None life threatening but some serious enough to cause Trish to miss school.

Then there was a new twist to the entries. Trish had learned that she could use the threat of reporting her aunt to extort money, alcohol, and privileges. Despite her newfound power over her Aunt Ruth, it was also clear that Trish wanted a more permanent escape. She continued to go to school and she excelled there.

Upon graduating high school, Trish found a job that paid enough to let her flee her aunt's home.

March 15 – FREE AT LAST! I have guarded my secret well enough that Ruthie didn't even know I was gone. Waited until she had drunk herself into another stupor and then slipped away. I only regret I won't be able to see the look on her face when she figures out I'm gone for good. I hope the hateful old cow chokes on her own vomit!

It was clear that Trish had so completely compartmentalized her life that her Aunt Ruth had no idea of how to trace her.

"Probably didn't really want to trace her either." Callie muttered as she blotted another tear from her eye.

November 18 – Read in the paper that Ruthie had died. Found on back steps by a neighbor. Apparently died of exposure. Truly something to be thankful for this year.

Callie winced at the bitterness of this entry. She could not help but contrast how devastated she was when Aunt Jean had died.

The entries went on to reveal how Trish had used sex, secrets, and blackmail to make her way in the world. Callie's emotions were churned up by what she read. On one hand she pitied the sad, loveless upbringing that her sister had endured. On the other hand, she was horrified at the devious plots and machinations Trish used to survive. She regretted, she feared, she wept as she read the tale of anguish, hatred, distrust, and deceit that was her sister's brief life.

Callie was particularly intrigued by the last year's entries. They told how Trish came to work at Farmington's Fabulous Pastries as Blake's personal assistant. As with so many of her previous jobs, Trish had approached her time as Blake's assistant with a mixture of seduction and opportunism. It was clear from the early entries during her time at Farmington's that she had tried to 'vamp' Blake. It was equally clear that he did not react as so many of her other employers had.

The entries revealed Trish's initial stubborn determination to get around Blake's resistance to her offers of sex and intrigue. However, as time went on, Trish's entries began to reflect a grudging but growing respect for Blake.

In time, Trish came to realize that he wasn't playing hard to get or the haughty rich man. He truly saw potential within her and valued her for her mind rather than her body.

It was equally clear that Blake had no romantic interest in Trish although he did seek to compliment her work and encourage her to strive toward improving herself.

Callie was touched by Trish's elation at finding her long lost little sister. She had planned for them to reacquaint themselves on a 'girls get away' weekend at a small B and B on the Pacific coast. Trish's last entry referred to an expected largess. The entry also referred to a new beginning, a "clean start" to a new life both as a reunited sister and "(hopefully)" a celebrity chef.

Callie carefully ordered the pages of Trish's diary. She made sure that the edges were all even and that no page left a ragged ear sticking out from the bundle. Once satisfied, she wrapped the rubber band back around the sheaf. She adjusted the band so that it was precisely in the middle of the pages and that there were no twists in it which might tear the edges of the pages.

Having mechanically, instinctively ordered the physical world she realized that her emotional world seemed more ordered as well.

In a soft voice, she spoke to herself. "Well Blake Farmington, you really are quite a surprise. Mountain man, gourmet cook in the wild, business mogul, and rescuer of distressed damsels in distress."

"Thanks, I'm glad you finally noticed." His deep rumbling voice cut through Callie's reverie.

Blake was standing in the doorway watching the sunlight play on the red-gold of her hair. But the smile on his face was somehow unconvincing. Callie studied him for a minute trying desperately to figure out what was wrong. He was smiling but, at the same time seemed sad or upset.

"How's the reading going?" He entered the cabin and went to sit across from her at the table.

"It's just really hard." came her soft reply. "I so desperately want to know more about her but so much of what she did, the things she felt are so alien. Almost terrifying. I have never known anyone with such hatred, such bitterness. She was so cynical."

Blake's strong fingers gently stroked the back of her hand and up her forearm. The simple gesture of concern made things even clearer in her mind. She trapped Blake's large, gentle hand with hers, squeezing it appreciatively.

"I wonder if she ever knew true affection. Love." Callie paused, thinking about the contrast in their lives. "I mean, I grew up knowing that I was loved. I was always told that I was a valuable person. Someone who had worth because I was alive."

She removed her hand briefly from Blake's to brush a tear away but it immediately found its way back to the comforting warmth of his hand.

"Aunt Jean couldn't have children. She and Mac always told me how much of a blessing I was in their lives. But they never let me forget who my parents were. They always told me that my parent's loved me. I always knew that I could count on them, even when I screwed up. I knew that they would be fair with me and that they always, always loved me." She began to cry again.

Blake gently brushed away her tears this time. His large, calloused hand gently stroked her cheek. His voice was surprisingly soft and melodic as he made gentle, soothing sounds trying to comfort her.

Callie sniffled, trapping his hand against her cheek, and nuzzling it. He smiled reassuringly at her. As the tears stopped again she said, "I just feel bad for her. It seems like she never had a chance. I mean, I don't condone how she acted but I guess I understand it."

What she didn't betray was the nagging feeling that there were a lot worse things in Trish's life than she wrote about in her diary.

That funny look of uneasiness came over Blake's face again. Callie looked at him quizzically. "What? What do you have to tell me that you don't want to tell me?"

Blake sat back abruptly. He hadn't thought she would be able to pick up on the anxiety he felt. The depth of feeling he had for this remarkable woman was making him careless. Or was it that she too felt the same way about him?

"It's about Trish, isn't it? Something to do with all those secrets she collected. She talked in her last entry about expecting a lot of cash to start over with. Is that what it's about?"

She read the growing concern on his face. "Whatever it is Blake, I can handle it. I feel sorry for Trish but I also know that she did some things that weren't right."

Callie sat dumbfounded. Blake had laid out Trish's entire blackmail scheme involving Will. He had dates, times, even the account into which the first payment was made.

Her notes reflected that Will had somehow discovered that she worked for Blake. He had tried to ward her off by threatening to reveal her blackmail scheme to her employers. Instead of being deterred, Trish had upped the ante and demanded an even larger payoff or she would leak the story to the press. Clearly, the information she had, even if it wasn't true could ruin his campaign. Will had succumbed.

There was nothing in Trish's notes to indicate that Will had any recent contact with this Hong person to whom he had sold the bear gall bladders. In fact, it looked as if, after being involved for some time, Will had somehow managed to extricate himself from the association. It seemed as if, in the naiveté of youth and with a burning desire to help his family, Will had fallen into the clutches of a local criminal. Not that he didn't continue the relationship for a long while. He had willingly taken the money but, at some point he obviously decided to stop. Probably, everything would have been fine and Trish would still be alive if she hadn't discovered Will's dirty little secret.

In some ways, Trish and Will were two of a kind. Both were damaged early in life by a family trauma. Both were ignored by their parental figures, so they developed badly flawed moral compasses. Both were fettered by financial hardship. Both had found illegitimate and illegal ways out of their penury. And both had made a conscious decision to break with their past.

Everything pointed to Trish intending this to be her last big score. All other information in her diary and her 'case notes' on Will indicated that she was planning to abandon her dishonest and reprehensible lifestyle for a more staid but safer one.

Unfortunately for her, and now for Callie, Trish had chosen to blackmail someone even more ruthless than she. Sampson had obviously been pushed too far into a corner. Once that happened, the results were deadly.

Blake sat across the aged trestle table from Callie. His hands had illustrated his narrative. Now they sat quietly, palms down on the worn surface. He took a deep breath, as if to revitalize himself after the exhausting ordeal of relating her half-sister's blackmail schemes to Callie.

Waves of trepidation and consternation broke against his craggy features. While he could see why Will would want, even feel like he needed to kill Trish to keep his dirty past safely locked away, he couldn't understand why Sampson would want to frame him for her murder.

"It just doesn't make sense for him to frame me." His voice betrayed his own level of emotional exhaustion.

Callie studied his ruggedly handsome, brooding face. She was getting to know his expressions and how to read them. It was as if she had developed a sixth sense where he was concerned.

She tried to frame the difficult question as carefully as she could. It was bound to be taken the wrong way but it had to be asked. "Is there any indication that Trish might have said or done something to lead Will to think you were in on this scheme with her?"

Blake's face darkened with indignation. His eyes became stormy seas. Their bright sapphire color was replaced by dark, angry blue gray.

He sprang up from the bench and began pacing. Agitation etched lines around his mouth and eyes. He was furious at what he saw as her implication that he would be part of such an affair. He stalked back and forth across the narrow width of the cabin, his eyes fixed upon her the whole while. His agitated gait reminded her of a tiger pacing in a cage. One that never broke eye contact with the people standing outside, mesmerized by its grace and menace.

"Let's get one thing _crystal_ clear." The change in his tone was not defensive. Callie knew beyond any doubt that he was just furious, not guilty.

"I knew _nothing_ about Trish's little sideline here. And, if I had, I would have canned her on the spot. Protégé or no protégé." His finger stabbed the air so hard that she imagined punctures forming in the space between them. His indignation was so hot and so real she could feel it.

There was a finality to what he said that rang clear and true. His eyes burned with an anger that defied her to say anything more about being a part of Trish's blackmail scheme.

Callie dropped her gaze momentarily. She was not surrendering, nor was she apologizing for examining all the options. She knew she was attracted to Blake. She knew he stirred up feelings in her that were new and frighteningly intense but she did not really _know_ the man. She wanted to believe that he was the knight in shining armor but nevertheless, knights could dissemble, deceive, or even lie.

"Look, I'm not accusing you or anything. I just asked if _Trish_ might have said or done something." She met his hurt, angry gaze with calm, steady eyes.

She paused to let her words work their way through the hard crust of his resentment before she continued with her thought. "I have a reason to ask but I'd hate to think that my fears might be correct."

Blake slowed his pacing. The anger on his face eased somewhat. His indignation still hung in the air like lingering smoke over a dying campfire. "Fine. You're not accusing me."

He swiped at the air with his hand, as if catching the accusation and then dashing it to the ground.

"Damn it Callie, I thought we agreed to trust each other." He stood there; a faint shadow of control started to cool the anger in his eyes.

"Blake, I'm not saying I don't trust you. But you have to admit Trish fooled a lot of people. She told half truths and lies as it suited her. All I'm asking is, could she have taken some small, innocent thing and turned it to make it seem like you were in the scheme with her?"

Blake began to see the sense of Callie's argument. Trish had fooled him. She was also really good at finding 'useful' personal information. Obviously, she had used scraps of knowledge, welded together with innuendo and lies to extort money out of some very powerful people.

"The only thing," he punctuated the air again with his index finger, "the _only_ thing that was ever said about politics was that I hoped Sampson got trounced in the election. My family has been supporting his opponent because we've heard some rumblings about Sampson using the office as a springboard to bigger things. I just think that if you get elected to represent the people, you should actually work to serve their needs, not your own."

Inwardly, Callie sighed with relief. Blake was certainly capable of lying. The smooth way he passed them off as newlyweds spoke to his ability to dissemble. But she was certain that he was telling the unadulterated truth now.

He quit trying to wear a path in the floor boards and moved to resume his seat at the table. He extended his hand to her, a vaguely chastened smile played across his lips. "Pax?"

She smiled warmly back at him, taking his virile, masculine hand. The warmth of him melted any lingering doubt she might have had. "Pax."

Blake's smile broadened, warmed, and chased away the stormy clouds in his eyes. "Before my fit of manliness, you said that you had a reason for asking if Trish might have implicated me in her scheme."

She erupted into laughter at his self criticism. "Fit of manliness huh? Never heard it called that before."

At that very moment she suddenly realized that, even through his anger, he had heard her. He actually listened to her, even when he was thoroughly outraged.

Blake laughed with her, albeit less heartily. "Yeah, fit of manliness. It's not copyrighted so feel free to use it. But I do expect to be credited. Anyway, why did you ask?"

Callie told him about the night Will related his family history and how he blamed Blake's family for their downfall. He listened impassively as she spoke.

He was absently mulling over the information when she caught him completely unaware with a question. "Do you think it's possible that Will somehow got Trish to give him information about you and then killed her so he could frame you for her murder?"

Blake was momentarily dumbfounded. He had never met Will Sampson. As near as he could tell he'd never had any dealings with anyone even remotely connected to him. Well, except for Trish.

Before this, he would have said that Trish would never have betrayed his trust. But her diary and her blackmail schemes made him doubt that now. He pondered Callie's question for several moments before answering.

"I suppose that he could have but why? I mean, why frame me? I don't know the guy. I don't like his politics but I've never met him. The only thing I've ever done that even remotely resembles working against him is contributing to the campaign fund for his opponent."

Callie peered long and deep into his eyes again. They had returned to their usual sapphire blue. She took a deep breath.

"That night, when he told me his life's story, at the end of it he said that he had finally found a way to pay the Farmingtons back. I had no idea what he meant and he was pretty drunk. I just kinda passed it off as bragging or some idle threat. But then, a few days later, Trish was killed and you were framed for her murder."
CHAPTER 33

Blake swung the axe with a focused power that was driven by his fury. Callie watched the muscles of his bare arms and back ripple in sequence as the blade fell repeatedly, easily cleaving the sections of log. His skin glistened with perspiration that captured the sunlight, defining the apex of each taut muscle. He had been at the task for more than half an hour without pause.

She marveled at his strength and stamina. Blake had fallen into an almost mechanical rhythm of bending, picking, swinging, bending. Occasionally, like now, his smooth rhythm was shattered by a vicious stroke. It was as if he was focusing all his frustration and anger on the target of his blade. Then, having seen the success of his destructive force on that particular log, he would return to his more sustained tempo. His labors yielded a growing pile of firewood.

Callie knew that he was working out some problem. She wanted to help, to comfort him, reassure him, explore options with him, but Blake was clearly not in the mood for rational discussions much less comforting. He was used to being a man of action. A man who attacked problems with the same gusto as he did the firewood logs. Now he found himself trapped by forces he could not control, people who had motives he could not discern. His frustration and anger needed a release and the firewood provided both a practical and emotionally satisfying focus for them.

Cradling the warmth of the coffee cup in her hands, she walked around to where she was in his peripheral vision. Blake seemed to not notice her, following though with the arcing axe, splitting the log as if it were made of plaster rather than seasoned wood. He did not pick up another section of log but rather made a shorter, softer swing with the blade. It imbedded itself in the splitting stump with a satisfying 'thunk'. Blake turned toward her as he stripped off the leather gloves he had been wearing.

"Coffee?" he asked. His face was still set in the same hard expression it had worn when she suggested that Will might have framed him for Trish's murder.

She managed a small smile and nodded as she stepped closer to him.

"Yours?"

This time she shook her head and extended the cup toward him. "I thought you might need something wet after all that work." she said nodding toward the pile of split wood.

He tried to smile at her but the weakness of the effort made it appear more like a grimace as he reached for the offered cup.

"Thanks." he said as he took the cup from her.

He raised the cup to his lips but the steam rising from the dark liquid warned him that he risked being scalded if he sipped now.

"Hot." he said as he set the cup down on the splitting stump and reached for his shirt.

Callie was disappointed at the veiling of her woodland Adonis' torso, but perhaps it was best. She'd become a little breathless. A very pleasing warmth started at the nape of her neck and spread through her as she watched his hard, smooth upper body at work.

Blake pulled the shirt on but did not button it, affording her a teasing view of his broad well developed chest and his rippled abdomen. The rolled back sleeves of the plaid printed shirt called attention to his powerful forearms. She found herself staring and remembering the power and weight of his body as they'd made love under the stars.

Coming back to the moment she responded to his comment about the coffee being hot. "Hmmm. Just made it."

The rich earthy aroma of the dark brew tantalized his nostrils. Picking the cup up again, he blew softly over the surface and risked a quick sip. "Thanks."

"You know, it's kinda hard to carry on a conversation when one party only utters single words." She knew she was taking a risk by teasing him when he was obviously upset but she couldn't think of any other way to shake him out of this angry funk.

Blake's face hardened. His hooded eyes stared at her over the rim of the coffee cup. After taking another tentative sip he replied, " 'magine so."

The muscles of his jaw relaxed slightly. His rigid upright posture slackened a bit. He even almost smiled.

"Oh, much better." she teased. "Two words. Well, actually one word and a slurred part of another but still two syllables. That's progress. By the end of the week we might even have a complete sentence. That is, if you're as bright a pupil as I hope you are."

That actually brought a smile to his face. "Depends on the teacher." he said taking another sip of the coffee. He realized how much he appreciated it and her. Setting two of the larger firewood logs on end he gestured for her to join him on the makeshift stools.

Callie sat and, having settled herself on the somewhat uncertain seat, reached for the coffee cup.

"I thought you said it wasn't yours." Blake drew the cup out of her reach.

"It's not."

"Then it's mine." he taunted her, playing keep away with the half empty mug.

"Or it could be ours." She caught his wrist with one hand and seized the body of the mug with the other.

"Just like this problem." she said quietly.

Blake bent down to kiss the hand gripping his wrist. His lips lingered there momentarily, the soft pressure of them warming her skin.

Callie could smell his warm manliness. A perfume of split wood and male pheromones engulfed her. She wanted this man. Against all her better judgment she wanted him desperately.

Blake looked up at her and nodded inquiringly toward the cup. "Got it?"

When she replied that she did, he released his grip on the handle. "It's still pretty hot. Didn't want to scald you."

"Thanks." She raised the cup to her lips.

"See, it's contagious." he said.

Callie stopped moving the cup and held it before her parted lips. The questioning look on her face, the rose petal softness of her lips, the white slightly uneven teeth behind them softened his anger more than he thought possible.

"Single word replies." His smile broadened as she laughed at him.

Blake reached for the cup.

"Un-uh." Callie said as she hastily took another sip. "I'm still not even with you."

She yielded the cup to him after a third swallow of the black brew. "So what's got you so wound up?"

Blake hove a great sigh. He prodded a wood chip with the toe of his boot before picking up a large piece of bark and hurling it across the compound. "Sorry. It's just that I'm not used to being penned in or fettered. I like challenges but, when I run into a problem, I like to fix it right then. So far, I haven't been able to do anything. You and your friends have been doing more to unravel this mess than I have. It just doesn't sit well."

Callie put her hand on his arm. "You know, for an executive, you sure don't delegate very well. Let's face it, up until now; we only knew that you were wanted for Trish's murder. We didn't have any idea who might have done it or why."

Her warm smile softened his mood somewhat. "Now that you have a better picture of what might be going on, I'm sure you'll come up with a plan and the rest of us will be sidelined."

He took another sip of the coffee and passed it back to her. "Well, I have been thinking."

Her eyebrows rose questioningly.

"It's one of the things that happens when you use a sharp axe. You get so focused on making sure that you aren't taking your leg off that all the clutter goes away. That leaves only you, the axe, and clarity. I guess it's why the Zen masters say to chop wood or carry water. You get so focused on the activity that truth tends to rise through the mess."

Callie smiled at him. "Oh wise one, share your knowledge with us mere mortals."

He laughed at his philosophizing. "I deserved that. Anyway, what came to me is that, we have no way to prove that I was framed, do we? I mean, you don't think I killed Trish because I'm not tech savvy enough to have taken that card thingy out of the phone."

He shrugged when she rolled her eyes at him. "We know about Trish's blackmailing Sampson but no one else does. You have to admit, he's covered his tracks pretty damned well."

Callie nodded. She could sense that he was going somewhere with this but she still wasn't sure where.

"What we need is someone who can root around. Dig stuff out. Find out if the information that Trish was blackmailing him with is really true."

When Callie nodded again he continued. "I have a friend at the paper in Seattle. We go way back and, he's a re-enactor as well. Civil War but, well, nobody's perfect."

Callie snorted a small laugh. "So, you're thinking that this misguided soul might be able to snoop around and see if anything in Trish's notes is true or not."

"Say, not only are you a cute girl who makes a great cup of coffee, you're smart too."

Callie tossed off the last of the coffee and then, only half teasingly said, "I do make great coffee. I'm really smart. But I am not a girl. I'm a woman and I'll thank you to remember that."

Blake winced at her reproof. He wouldn't tolerate anyone referring to him as a boy. He tried to dig his way out of the hole he had so thoughtlessly made for himself. "I'm well aware that you are a woman — in every sense of the word."

He paused, looking for some sign of forgiveness. When Callie blinked at him, he continued. "But is it okay if I think you're cute? Or sexy, or I don't know, just plain wonderful? I mean, I don't want you to think I'm a sexist pig or anything but ... Well, I've probably said enough."

Callie was stunned momentarily. No man had ever described her as 'just plain wonderful.' Some had found her attractive although, for the life of her, she couldn't imagine why. But no one, especially someone as magnificent as Blake Farmington, had ever called her 'just plain wonderful'.

She studied his face. There was no hint of teasing on it. She was afraid to believe that he was sincere. She had to protect herself against believing that an attraction founded in crisis and mutual adversity could last.

"Well, I don't think you're a _complete_ pig. But, since you're trying to be complimentary, I'll overlook that. In fact, I think you're more like a piglet. A little clumsy, but pretty cute yourself." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

Blake turned his head at the last moment. She felt the roughness of his beard as it grazed her cheek. Then, their lips met. The peck she'd intended became a prolonged, deep, searing kiss. She could feel the embers of last night's aching need rekindle as Blake drew her closer.

Callie dug deep inside for the rational part of herself. Finding it, she had the strength to push Blake away, gently, reluctantly, but nevertheless firmly.

Blake felt as if an essential part of him had just been wrenched away. Questioning the wisdom of what he had done, he was tempted to apologize to her but he was growing tired of apologizing for how he felt. Damn it, he loved her. He had loved her from the moment he first saw her. And everything she had done and said since then had only made him love her more. Why couldn't she just accept that?

He did.

Instead of apologizing he looked deep into her emerald green eyes and said, "I definitely don't think of you as a girl."

Callie felt her cheeks flushing. She was equally aware of the growing warmth flooding throughout her body.

Struggling for control over herself and the situation she managed to say, "Well, I'm glad."

She wanted to bring the conversation back onto safer, less emotionally charged ground.

Callie took a deep breath of resolve and returned to what Blake was saying about having an old friend who might be able to snoop around. "What were you going to say? Something about a friend who might be able to help? What do you have in mind?"
CHAPTER 34

"Don't say my name."

Ken recognized the voice from his past. "Treat me like a source with an anonymous tip."

"Well, I might be interested. What can you tell me about it?" Ken's mind raced to understand why his old college friend, an old college friend who was now wanted for murder, would be calling him.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I could do that." Ken scribbled down a note on a scrap of paper. "Sure, what time?" He carelessly drummed his pencil on the desktop.

In the cubicle across the aisle, Jack Yardley was taking another sip of his 'iced tea'. He had a habit of nipping at the bottle in the early afternoon. He maintained that no one knew about his vodka laced pick-me-up and, if he was in a confessing mood, he swore that it was just the thing to get him racing toward the deadline.

Something in Ken's manner made him take notice. Perhaps it was the puzzled look on his face right after answering the phone. Or maybe it was the way he frantically looked around for a scrap of paper instead of using the notepad in front of him. Or even that he used his body to block anyone from seeing what he wrote. Whatever it was, Ken was up to something.

Yardley's instincts slowly came up to speed. Somewhere in the dim past he remembered an office party where someone had said something about Blake Farmington and his soon to be ex-wife. Ken hadn't leapt to defend the lady's honor but he was very clear that he was an old and loyal friend of Farmington's.

Ken had been jumped over Yardley and assigned to the investigative reporting desk. Yardley didn't really care. He was marking time at the paper. The contacts and tidbits of gossip it gave him made the 'sideline business' he'd spun off quite lucrative. He never really blackmailed anyone. Instead, he provided the ammunition to enterprising parties that allowed them to blackmail others. As Yardley saw it, he was more of an information broker. What other people did with that information wasn't any of his concern.

Yardley had seen Ken get anonymous tips before. Ken was a creature of habit. A real ferret when it came to tracking down information and digging out facts, but he was a methodical, meticulous operator. Maybe that is what set off the alarm for Yardley. Ken wasn't following his usual pattern.

"Hot tip on new scandals in high places?" he good naturedly called out as Ken hung up the phone.

Ken looked surprised for a moment then replied, "Could be."

"Aaaah." Yardley's tone was knowing, taunting. "Very hush-hush kind of stuff unless I miss my guess."

Ken gave him a knowing wink. His response was etched by a sizzle of excitement. "Don't you know it!"

His false bonhomie confirmed Yardley's suspicions. Ken was up to something and he would bet next week's liquor bill that it had to do with Blake Farmington.

"Go get'em tiger." Yardley toasted Ken with his "iced tea".

As Ken turned from gathering up his notepad and the scrap of envelope Yardley saw the words 'Long Horse' written on it. The time was hidden under Ken's thumb. Yardley lazily gazed after Ken.

_Must be going to run something past the editor_. _Time to do a little business_. Yardley leaned forward, setting down his 'iced tea' glass on a relatively clear piece of desk real estate. He peered around the cubicle wall one more time before reaching for the phone.

With Ken safely out of earshot, Yardley dialed the emergency number his mystery woman had given him.

The sultry voice purred 'hello'. Yardley's fantasies kicked into high gear. He adopted an attitude and tone he thought would be worthy of a playboy. "Hey gorgeous, I may have something of interest to you."

Her simple reply fueled his imagination. He shook himself back to the task at hand. "You know Ken Robbins? The investigative reporter here?"

She purred a response.

"Well, he's an old friend of Blake Farmington's." When he got no response from the vamp on the other end he continued. "Kenny Boy just got a hot tip and has run off to meet with the editor. From the way he acted, I'm betting he was just talking to Farmington."

He had the vamp's attention now. She asked if he knew anything more. Only after negotiating his fee did Yardley tell her that Ken was probably going to a meeting with Blake at Long Horse Lake State Park.

The vamp purred a bit more in his ear as Yardley sipped his "iced tea".

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you gorgeous." he said just before hanging up.

Yardley took a long pull off his alcohol laced cooler. _Yes sir, it's a great little sideline business. So easy to turn a little information into a lot of cash._ he thought with smug satisfaction.

Susan Fields flipped through her contacts and touched the one she wanted. The burn phone on the other end began to ring.

"I have a job for you." she said tersely. "Do you know Ken Robbins?"

"Good. He's probably on his way to Long Horse Lake Park to meet with Farmington. I want you to get there, find Farmington and detain him. Once you have him under wraps, ring me back for further instructions." The watcher on the other end replied with a terse military term indicating he understood and would comply.

"It's okay to rough him up – if you have to, of course – but _don't_ kill him. At least, not yet. Oh, and if you happen to see that little chit Adams, bring her along as well; unharmed."

She disconnected because she couldn't imagine that there were any questions.
CHAPTER 35

Callie backed the green wagon into the campsite parking area. Their permit was for one of the 'improved' campsites that had a smooth parking spot for a truck and camper or a trailer. Blake wanted a place where Callie could be back from the roadway to minimize the chances that she or he would be noticed.

"Okay, Ken should be here in a few minutes. I want to wait for him to get to the meeting place first. That way I can check to make sure he wasn't followed." The corners of his mouth rose reassuringly for Callie's benefit.

Callie was less worried about someone following Ken than she was about giving him Trish's diary. She still wasn't completely convinced that it was the best idea to turn this kind of incendiary information over to an investigative reporter, even if he was one of Blake's oldest friends.

_Old friends have a way of turning on you when they smell blood in the water._ she thought _._

Callie managed a wan return smile that still had worry etched into the edges of it.

Blake desperately wanted to reassure her that this _was_ a good idea. "He's not a cop. Besides, 'corrupt politician murderer' trumps 'basically honest businessman murderer' in the scandalous news game."

There was an impish twinkle in his eye. She could see that he was alive with excitement to be doing something to help himself. Callie couldn't help but worry that something was going to go wrong. They had been lucky so far but, in her experience, luck only carried you so far. She understood the reason that Blake had arranged this meeting. They really had no proof that Will was connected to gangsters or that he had murdered her sister. They needed something tangible if they were going to get Blake off the hook.

"I hear what you're saying. I just can't help worrying. This seems really risky." She tried not to betray the level of panic she actually felt.

"Believe me, it's okay. He's an old friend. In college he, Mike Jamison, and I were like brothers. There's nothing that we wouldn't do for each other." He tried to infuse his words with reassurance. "If anything we are closer now since Mike was killed in Afghanistan."

"Old college buddy, blood brother, or whatever, you _promise_ me that at the first sign of something being not right, you'll hightail it back here and we get out." She gave him her best, stern, no nonsense stare.

He chuckled at her effort to appear menacingly serious. "Yes ma'am. I promise to hightail it at the first hint of trouble." He held up one hand as if taking an oath and made a cross over his heart with the other.

"You know, until this moment, I never realized that anyone still said 'hightail', especially not such a modern sophisticate." He wore a boyish grin that made her both amused and irritated.

"Blake, I'm serious. Promise me. Seriously." She could feel tears beginning to well up. Her voice grew tremulous as she tried to hold them back. "I'm just really worried about this."

Blake looked at her for a moment, reading the apprehension on her face. She had borne up so well through all this. He realized that teasing her would only cause her more anxiety. That was the last thing he wanted.

He looked at her seriously, earnestly. The timber of his voice gave gravity to the quiet words he spoke. "I promise. If anything even looks like it might be wrong, I will blow off the meeting and we'll think of something else."

He kissed his index finger and placed it on her lips as a pledge of his sincerity.

She captured his broad, calloused hand with hers and held against her cheek, nuzzling it. "Okay." Her voice was almost a whisper.

Blake leaned over to her and kissed her mouth softly, tenderly. "It'll be okay."

Sitting up he looked toward the spot where he was to meet Ken. A man walked casually toward the lake shore carrying a fishing pole in his left hand. The man arrived at the shore, set down the creel and net he held in his right hand, and took off his baseball cap. He rubbed his brow with his right sleeve and put the cap back on.

"That's Ken and he's signaling that all's clear." A quickening excitement stirred in Blake's voice. Callie could feel the shift in his mood. He became focused, intense, predatory.

Blake's eyes scanned the area around where Ken stood as he reached into the back seat. From between two boxes of coffee supplies he took a large manila envelope. In it were copies of Trish's notes on Will Sampson. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that truck stops had become mini-business centers where you could make copies, buy supplies, connect to the Internet, and even find small scale swap meets. What was best of all is that it all occurred in blessed anonymity.

As he opened the door he stuffed the envelope into a nondescript, well worn knapsack. He turned back to Callie, smiled reassuringly and quipped, "I'll be back in a jiff. Don't run off on me now."

She swatted at him more playfully than she truly felt. "See you in a few minutes." She struggled to keep the nagging doubt inside her from tainting her words.

Ken Robbins was an avid fisherman. He never passed up an opportunity to get out with a rod and reel. He stood on the shore of Long Horse Lake and made his second cast as Blake Farmington came out of the brush to his right.

"Long time, no see buddy."Ken's gaze never left the place where his cast had landed. His words were casual, as if greeting a hiker who had just happened upon him.

"Not since Mike's memorial." Blake kept his voice low so it would not carry more than a foot or two beyond where they stood.

To anyone watching them, they looked like two men who had met by chance and were chatting about some banal topic.

"So, I assume that you didn't kill that woman." Ken said as he teased the line a bit.

"No, but I have a good idea who did and why he wanted her out of the way." Blake said bending down to pick up a stone from the shingle shore.

Ken's eyebrow rose a fraction but he refrained from looking at Blake. He was afraid that he might betray their innocent tableau.

Blake waited a moment before setting off his verbal bomb. "Will Sampson."

The line jerked involuntarily as Ken struggled to suppress his surprise and excitement. When he recovered his composure, he discovered that there was a trout attached to the hook.

_Good omen_. he thought as he began to reel his catch in.

"Got any proof?" To a casual observer, he looked like one of those sportsmen who talked to their catch as they hauled it ashore.

"Not real proof but some damned interesting reading that should give you a few leads." Blake replied as if offering advice to the fortunate angler.

"If I'm right about Sampson, Jamison shouldn't have any trouble getting me off the hook."

Ken groaned at the pun. He should have expected it since punning was one of their old college games.

Blake continued, gratified at Ken's response. "When you turn up something useful, give Old Jamison a call would you? I'd like to have him working on getting me out if this mess as soon as possible. Also, there's a safe phone number on the notes. Call me, but from a pay phone. I don't want to take any chances now that it looks like there might be a way out of this mess."

"Wait until I get this big boy ashore and then drop it into the creel." Ken continued the charade of talking the fish to its doom. "There's a plastic lining I can drop over the fish so that the papers are more pleasant to read."

Blake snorted to suppress a laugh. He almost choked trying to keep from laughing aloud.

Ken got the trout ashore and into his net. "He's a beaut." Ken exclaimed.

"Good story and fresh trout for dinner. Now that's what I call a good day." Ken spoke in just above a whisper as he dropped the fish into the creel and shut the lid.

Blake asked if he could look at the fish again, just like any envious fellow fisherman might.

Ken nodded his assent. Squatting down with his knapsack in front of him, Blake positioned his body between the creel and the park. With one smooth motion he withdrew the manila envelope from the knapsack and deposited it inside the open top of the creel.

Shutting the creel's lid again, Blake rose and commented enviously for the benefit of anyone listening. "That's a big one you got there."

It was Ken's turn to almost choke trying not to laugh at the double entendre.

"Thanks." The said single word came out with difficulty.

He took a deep breath, struggling to force down the next pun. "I think I'm going to not press my luck. Got a good catch, so I'm going to be happy with that."

Blake grinned. Trading puns had been a favorite pastime for them in college. "I'm sure you'll be really happy with him. Looks like one you can really sink your teeth into." he called over his shoulder.

As he did, he felt the hairs at the nape of his neck rise. He knew, never mind how, he knew that Callie was in danger and he set off at a run in her direction.

Callie would have seen the dark sedan had she not been reaching into the back seat for a bottle of water. If she had seen it, she would have recognized it as the twin of the one that had chased her.

The sedan was well past her and around the curve in the narrow paved road that wound between the campsites by the time she turned around. It pulled over into a space just behind where Callie was parked.

The two men inside the sedan said nothing. They were practiced and experienced in this kind of operation. They had recognized Callie's car from the description they were given. It was evident that she was waiting to meet someone. Perhaps Farmington, or perhaps the reporter they had been told to look for. Either way, if they controlled the girl, they controlled the situation.

It never crossed their minds that they stood out in a park campground. In a place where everyone was dressed in a dizzying array of plaids, denims and printed tee shirts, two muscular men in dark suits, black military boots, black crew neck shirts and wraparound sunglasses were incongruous to say the least. With well learned ease, they made their way noiselessly through the thin brush that separated their car from Callie's. Black leather gloves were donned and hand signals exchanged in silent communication.

Callie was staring intently in the direction that Blake had gone. She didn't notice the men creeping silently up behind her car until the door exploded open. A strong hand gripped her left arm and struggled to drag her out. Momentary panic surged through her. She was disoriented by the violence and suddenness of the attack. The watcher might have succeeded in getting her out of the car had it not been for the seatbelt. In her anxiety over the meeting, Callie had forgotten to take it off. Now it anchored her inside the wagon and gave her time to act.

Fighting down the panic, Callie remembered the self defense classes that Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac insisted she take. _Anything can be a self defense weapon_ the instructor had said. Callie felt the weight of the full water bottle in her hand. Suddenly she knew what to do.

Callie took the water bottle and jammed the sports top into the nostril of her would be assailant. She squeezed the thin plastic with both hands, sending a pressurized jet of water into his sinuses.

Shock registered on his face as the cold liquid flooded his sinuses and ran down his throat. Coughing and choking, h e released his grip on Callie and reeled backward. Through the pain he managed to wheeze, "You Bitch!"

As her attacker reeled back, his partner, surprised by the suddenness of his retreat, rushed to his aid. The coughing watcher gestured wildly toward Callie. "Get ... that ... bitch ...!" he said, again gasping for breath. The water had gone into his airway and he was fighting the spasms cutting off his air.

Callie was in motion the moment her attacker released his grip. She unhooked her seatbelt and climbed across the console. If she could get to the passenger door quickly enough, she might escape the confused tangle of abductors.

The campground wasn't full but there were several other people there. At this moment she was regretting that they had selected a secluded camp site to pull into. When they had arrived, it made sense to be as far away from other people as possible. Less chance of Blake being recognized. But now, the isolation threatened to be Callie's undoing.

She tumbled out of the passenger's door, shouting as loud as she could. "Blake!"

She prayed that somehow, her cry for help would carry across the park, through the dense undergrowth and tree limbs to find Blake where he had gone to meet Ken.

It was probably a vain hope but it was the only one she had.

The second watcher slid across the hood of the green wagon, grabbing at her.

He snagged a handful of her windbreaker's sleeve of as she tried to flee into the woods.

Callie struggled to free herself of the lightweight jacket. She twisted in an effort to remove her arm from the sleeve.

The thin fabric bound under her arm making it impossible for her to free herself fast enough to escape.

The attacker held on, tightening his grip.

He jerked her off balance and back toward him.

Despite her writhing and kicking, he managed to get her into a bear hug.

She could feel her panic rising again. Her breath came in quick, shallow huffs which dried her mouth.

She fought to maintain control of her emotions. _Panic causes you to miss chances to escape_. the self defense instructor had told them.

That was fine in the classroom but it was much harder now that she was truly fighting for her life.

"Got her!" Callie's would be abductor shouted to his partner who was coming around the hood of the wagon.

He struggled to keep his hold on Callie as she writhed and squirmed like an eel. He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see a large man strike his partner between the shoulder blades with a length of madrona branch. The heavy wood connected with a dull thud and his partner fell to the ground.

Blake closed the ground between them with a predatory speed that alarmed the thug. The remaining watcher spun Callie in front of him, using her as a shield.

Blake hefted the length of hardwood, adjusting his grip. "Let her go." The hiss of cold blooded rage and menace were not lost on the man holding Callie hostage.

"Not likely Farmington." The watcher's voice grated with hostility. He was aware of the danger Blake posed but not afraid of it.

He snaked one arm around Callie's neck and gripped her under her arm. "I think you'd better let the lady come with me. There's someone who wants to talk to her."

Blake advanced on the watcher, circling him, driving him back toward the rear of the wagon. "I tell you what; you let her go and I'll agree to forget this happened." His crouched warily, studying the watcher's face.

He held heavy limb held in guard position.

His demeanor was that of a hunter approaching a cornered animal. Every nerve was attuned to the subtlest change in his prey.

His breathing was slow and even but his eyes darted around, taking in the ground, the obstacles, his target, and Callie.

The opportunity to escape became crystal clear to Callie. She remembered the exercise on how to escape from someone who had you in a bear hug.

Suddenly her arms shot above her head as her legs went lax.

She slumped down, 122 pounds of dead weight, slipping out of the watcher's grip like water down a drain pipe.

Blake was in motion as soon as she began to raise her arms. The mental connection between them was almost supernatural.

He intuited what she was doing even as she began to do it.

The heavy branch came down in an arc catching the watcher squarely on the right shoulder.

There was an audible crack as the red barked hardwood slammed into his collar bone.

"Roll!" shouted Blake.

Callie tumbled away from both men coming to rest against the rear wheel of the wagon.

As she did, she saw Blake reverse the arc of his swing and sweep the feet from under her would be abductor. The branch caught the watcher behind the right leg, just above the knee and he fell to the ground, moaning in agony.

Relief flooded through Callie. She didn't know how Blake knew she needed help but he had. He'd appeared out of nowhere.

She began to tremble, as much from relief as from the flood of adrenaline the attack had brought on.

From behind Blake, a male voice shouted, "Hey, what's going on here?"

Blake spun on the balls of his feet, the branch back at the guard position, ready to attack or defend against the new threat.

Coming toward them with a half-shuffling, half-running gait was an elderly man wearing a green vest. The patch on the left side of his shirt announced him as the Park Camp Host. On the right side was embroidered, 'HI! I'm Ed.'

The man was moving at a slow run but he was certainly not winded. He had a can of bear spray in his right hand and was aiming it at Blake.

"Just settle down young fella." he said. It was clear that he knew to stay out of reach of any lunge Blake might make.

"This spray will drive off a black bear at thirty feet. I'm pretty sure it can handle you." He waggled the can menacingly.

Blake lowered the branch. He had heard how effective some bear sprays could be. He certainly wasn't willing to find out first hand. "Okay, I'm putting it down."

"Now then, just what the Sam Hill is going on here?" the older man asked.

The camp host noted that Blake had lowered, not dropped the madrona club. He kept his bear spray pointed toward him and made sure Blake knew he was more than ready to use it.

Blake chuckled at the cliché oath the camp host had uttered. "Sorry," he said. "I never realized that anyone actually said, 'what in the Sam Hill' before."

At that moment Callie rose from the ground. She was still trembling but she was able to control it better now. The adrenaline caused her senses to be sharp and clear.

She heard the threat towards Blake and could just see the anxious elderly camp host.

The camp host, seeing the motion but not who was making it, increased his guard. The pressurized canister thrust forward, his finger tensing on the trigger.

Callie made a show of dusting herself off before she raised her hands as if to surrender. She looked at the camp host and, with more steadiness than she felt, said, "Thank you. Thank you both."

Her obvious dishevelment and demeanor caused the camp host to lower the canister slightly.

She beamed gratefully and gestured toward Blake. "I don't know what I would have done if this man hadn't come along."

She turned her gratitude and attention to Ed the camp host. "Those two men came out of nowhere and tried to drag me out of my car. Then, this nice man came to my rescue."

Blake and Callie shifted apart from each other slightly. In doing so, they permitted Ed to see the two incapacitated watchers. Ed lowered his bear spray and took in the scene before him. Clearly, the two incapacitated assailants were not dressed for a day in the country. Their appearance added credence to Callie's explanation.

"Good work young man. Don't like trouble in my campground. Nice to meet someone that's not afraid to step in." He favored Callie with a fatherly grin as he spoke.

Callie returned the smile a little shakily. She was sure now that the camp host understood that Blake was no threat to him. Ed holstered his bear spray.

"You okay young lady?" His concern was genuine.

"I'I think so." she smiled wanly at him. "Just a little rattled. She leaned back against the side of the wagon as if for support.

Blake dropped the madrona branch. Turning toward Callie as if to support her he said, "I wish we had some way of tying these fellows up until the law arrives. Don't happen to have any rope or tape, anything like that, in your car do you?"

Callie took her cue perfectly. "Why, yes, there is some duct tape in there. It's in that cardboard box behind the driver's seat." She pointed helpfully to the wagon's driver's side door.

Blake rummaged in the box as if looking for the tape. Although he knew very well where it was, he continued the pretense that he was just a passerby for Ed's benefit.

"Got it." he announced triumphantly as he brandished the roll of silver tape in the air.

Blake bound the hands and feet of the first watcher. An impish grin crossed his face that neither Callie nor the camp host saw. Tearing off a smaller strip of tape, he covered the mouth of the man who was just rousing out of his unconsciousness.

"No telling what kind of filth comes out of the mouth of a man like this." he said as he rose up.

"Good idea. Probably don't want to hear what he has to say anyway." Ed chirped enthusiastically as he immersed himself in the role of 'heroic rescuer number two.'

Blake moved to the second man, taping his feet together and binding his uninjured arm to his chest.

"Otta do that one's mouth too young fella." Ed offered. He made no effort to disguise his satisfaction at seeing the two thugs bound and gagged.

Blake looked at Callie. He winked at her before speaking. "Say, are you alright ma'am?"

Callie feigned a stagger. "I'm ...... I ..... I'm feeling a bit funny." she said in a theatrically weak voice.

A worried frown formed on Ed's face. "Should I call an ambulance? Did they hurt you? Hit your head?" he shuffled closer to her.

Blake eased in before he could get to Callie. He put a supporting arm around her waist and guided her toward the passenger side door which had stood open since her attempted escape. Seating her inside the car he said, "Say, I think Ed's right. You should get checked out. How about I drive you to the urgent care in town?"

"Good thinking." Ed sounded relieved at Blake's suggestion. "Quicker than waiting for the ambulance any way. It's a volunteer outfit you know."

Callie managed a small sigh of relief. "Thanks, I think that's a good idea."

Blake asked where her keys were and she pointed to them in the ignition.

"Listen," he paused and stared at the name tag on the green vest, "Ed, I've got to get this lady to the doctor, when you call the cops, tell them where to find us, okay?"

His long legs bunched up against the dash as he tried to slide behind the wheel. Reaching down for the handle, he adjusted the seat to fit his height. It crossed his mind that he was very grateful he had not driven to the lake. Ed might be older but he was surely sharp enough to notice if the seat position had fit Blake instead of Callie.

Ed raised his arm, extended his index finger, and touched the bill of his ball cap in salute as he made his terse reply. "Right."

"I'll have them meet you at the urgent care right after they pick up these two." He gestured contemptuously at the bound and gagged men.

"Thanks Ed. I really appreciate the help." Blake extended his hand out the driver's window for Ed to shake it.

Taking Blake's large, muscular hand, Ed said, "Glad to help. You get her to the doc and make sure she's okay."

As Blake drove away he saw Ed hailing another camper to watch the two bound men and then he shuffled off to call the police.
CHAPTER 36

Alvin Baines sat at his desk scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. His part of the phone conversation alternated between saying 'uh-huh' and then asking, 'Really?'

"Well, thanks deputy. I appreciate your call. I can't say that your information makes my case any easier but it does give me a lot to think about."

Baines paused to listen to the county deputy again before asking, "And there's no trace of him or the woman?"

There was another 'uh-huh' followed by 'huh' alone.

"No idea who she was? And the camp host didn't get the license number? Okay, well, thanks again." Baines replaced the phone on its cradle and stared at it as if it were some alien artifact. Disbelief reflected in his brown eyes.

Shaking his head, muttered words of disbelief fell out of his mouth. "Well, I'll be damned."

Scooting his chair back so he could see around the partition he called to his partner. "Hey Mike, you're not going to believe this."

Baines and his partner Mike Hennessey sat waiting for their lieutenant to return. Both men were unsure what the information from the deputy's phone call meant to their case but it did force them to reevaluate some of their assumptions.

Lt. Dombrov walked in the door and plopped down in his chair. He began to absentmindedly swivel the chair from side to side as he always did when he talked to anyone. "So, what's so urgent?" His question was directed to Baines.

Baines looked at Hennessey and then back at the lieutenant. "I just got a call from the Kittitas County Sheriff. It seems that they took two mystery men into custody today. One of them was pretty bad off with a broken clavicle."

"And what does that have to do with us?" Dombrov massaged the bridge of his nose, wincing as he spoke. The pile of paperwork on his desk he had to slog through was talking louder to him than Baines right now. Dombrov was becoming impatient.

"Well, that's the interesting part." Baines sat forward, resting his elbows in his knees. "The two guys aren't cooperating except to say that the man who took them down and gift wrapped them in duct tape was Blake Farmington."

Dombrov stopped waggling in his chair. He rocked forward and placed his forearms on the desk. He stared intently at Baines and Hennessey, wanting to believe that they were joking. He could see that they weren't.

"Maybe you better back up and start from the beginning." He was suddenly very interested in Baines' information.

For the next thirty minutes Baines briefed the lieutenant on how Blake had come to the rescue of some woman who was being assaulted by the two men in custody. The camp host, who by all accounts was a reliable and credible witness, had furnished most of the information. While he didn't see the men trying to abduct the woman, he did see Blake dispatch one of them and then secure them.

Interestingly, it was Farmington who suggested that the camp host call for the deputy. The woman seemed to leave with him voluntarily. No force, no apparent abduction but they never showed up at the local urgent care clinic either.

When Baines finished the briefing, Lt. Dombrov rocked back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. "Huh."

Baines nodded in agreement. "That's what I said LT. We have two guys with fake IDs trying to snatch or rape some woman and a brutal killer who uses only reasonable force to stop them. We're talking about a wanted man who risks capture to step in and save a citizen from an attack and then, the same wanted killer tells the camp host to call the cops. It doesn't add up."

"And Kittitas doesn't know who these birds are?" Dombrov knew the answer already but he asked anyway.

"Nope. They're running their prints now but nothing so far. Whoever they are, they have a Class A forger working for them. The papers they have are so good that it took running the DL database twice to confirm that the licenses are phonies. They even have the data strip on the back." Baines and Hennessey both started to chuckle.

Dombrov looked irritated. Before he could tear into the detectives Baines said, "When the deputy scanned the data strips the printout read 'Sorry, you're not a winner this time. Try again.'

Dombrov muttered. "Smart asses."

Leaning forward into his 'serious' pose, Lt. Dombrov pressed Baines for information. "Okay. So we got two seemingly dirty wiseasses. Can Kittitas hold them on anything?"

Hennessey responded. Dombrov was so focused on Baines that he seemed almost surprised to find Hennessey in the room. "Probably only on the fake IDs. I'd bet that they can't hold them for more than twenty four hours unless the woman comes forward and files a complaint."

"What about the camp host? Did he see anything?" Dombrov's question wasn't directed at either individual.

Baines answered. "Seems that he only saw Farmington take the one down. He says that the woman was really shaken up. He believed her when she said they were trying to harm her. Says that she seemed grateful to Farmington but he didn't get the impression that she knew him or that Farmington knew her."

"So, she's got no connection to Farmington that we can see." mused Dombrov. "You gotta wonder why she didn't go to get checked out by the medics." He fiddled with some paperclips on his desk, absently stringing them into a chain.

"I suppose Farmington could have kidnapped her but, why? I mean, what good does it do him to saddle himself with another person who could be reported missing?" Hennessey offered the suggestion up to be challenged and tested by the two senior investigators.

"Maybe once she was away she didn't want to get involved." Baines speculated.

"Yeah, but what about Farmington? What does he do?" asked Dombrov.

"Dunno, maybe she says she doesn't want to see the docs so he takes her to town where he can melt into the background, get a bus or something and then she goes on her way." Baines wasn't crazy about the theory but it made some kind of sense.

Hennessey chimed in, "That makes more sense than abducting her. Then, for whatever reason she decides that it was a random attack; it's over now; and she just blows it off." He paused a minute before adding, "Or maybe her old man is an asshole and she doesn't want to tell him for fear of being blamed."

Lt. Dombrov mulled over the information and their speculations.

Finally he brought his hands down decisively on the desktop, "Okay. Get back to Kittitas. We want to know as much as we can about these characters they have in custody. Also, we want to know if these wiseacres contact anyone, and who it is."

Dombrov was ticking off points on his fingertips now. "Also, if they're released, we want to know about it."

He shook his finger definitively at Baines and Hennessey. " _And_ , if this woman turns up I want one of you to interview her with the Kittitas guys. She may be able to tell us more about Farmington."

The two detectives nodded and rose from their chairs. They knew Dombrov had finished. Sitting there any longer would just provoke him into one of his famous sarcastic fits.

"Right, L T." they said in unison and exited his office door.

"And shut the damned door." he shouted as they left.

As Hennessey softly shut the door he heard the lieutenant mutter. "Too much damned paperwork. Why'd I ever let them promote me to this shit job?"

Baines needed a change of scene. The grey cubicles were closing in on him, swallowing any original thoughts he might have. Getting outside the building into the fresh air was always a good way to clear the cobwebs. Of course, wandering down to the coffee kiosk in the middle of the Government Plaza didn't hurt anything either. The air was clear and the sun was shining. It was one of those summer days that made the Pacific Northwest such a great place to live. Around the fringes of the government complex, giant cranes were busy adding to the growing skyline of Bellevue.

As Baines entered the building his attention was diverted by a flurry of birds rising from the pavement. He watched them flutter into the crystal blue sky instead of looking where he was going. His attention was immediately refocused when he bumped solidly into another pedestrian. The files and large envelopes the man had been carrying scattered across the pavement with the same energy as the rising birds.

Recovering himself, Baines reached out to steady the other man and stammered a very embarrassed 'Sorry.'

His expression hardened from concern to suspicion when he noticed the man's face.

"Robbins." he said with bare civility. "If I'd known it was you I'd've kept going."

The corners of Ken Robbins' mouth rose insincerely as he sneered a reply. "Why detective. What a pleasure to be assaulted like one of the public."

Ken hurried to scoop up the spilled papers, trying unsuccessfully to block Baines' view of them with his body. Baines had seen enough to rivet his attention on three words.

One of the envelopes was labeled 'FARMINGTON'. The printing had been done with a permanent marker in a bold hand.

One of the files' tabs was labeled 'SAMPSON' in the same manner but with smaller print.

Most interestingly, a sheet protruding from the Sampson file had the word 'Hong' typed on it. The word was at the end of a line so it could very well have been part of Hong Kong but it might be something else.

"So what muck are you raking up today?" Baines craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of any other labels.

"No muck. I don't deal in muck. I believe in the truth." Ken straightened up, clutching the pile of papers protectively to his chest.

"Hey! I didn't know they transferred you to the humor column." Baines enjoyed needling the investigative reporter.

"They'd only do that to make it easier to expose the clown in charge of things." Ken wasn't about to give any ground to the detective.

It was his turn to needle Baines. "Since I've got you here, you wouldn't care to make a statement on the Farmington case would you?"

Baines stared at the reporter critically. The question was totally unexpected. Ken Robbins didn't work the crime beat. As _the_ ace investigative reporter, he only dealt with things that embarrassed people in high places. Robbins had several local and national awards for his sensational reporting. He had a good reputation among news types. Baines knew through the grapevine that Robbins had been offered a position on a big East Coast paper but had turned it down to remain in Seattle.

Like him or not, Baines had to grudgingly admit that Robbins was an effective ferret and as ethical as any newsman was likely to be. His informants gave him juicy information but Robbins was always careful to corroborate his information through secondary sources before publishing.

Because of that, Robbins had always been able to beat any liable suit filed against him or the paper. Baines' intuition told him that Robbins' interest in the Farmington case was more than just needling.

"Why the interest in a murder investigation? That's not your usual grist is it?" Baines was stalling while he rummaged through the storehouse of random information he kept tucked away in his memory.

"I hear rumblings that you may be way off base. That's all. Thought I'd start my next investigation early." Robbins' glib tone grated on Baines' already over stretched nerves.

"No comment. Ongoing investigation." Baines refused to rise to the bait.

The dusty file drawers of his memory had yielded up the fact at just the right time. "You're an old pal of his, aren't you?" he asked the reporter.

Ken didn't answer. For the merest instant, his face reflected the surprise and suspicion that he felt. _How did Baines know that?_ he wondered.

Composing himself, Ken tried to make his response sound casual and off handed. "Old pal? We went to the same college, even had a few laughs but I haven't seen him for quite some time now."

He hoped that his bluff was effective. He didn't need to get on the wrong side of an open police investigation. That could be a quick short cut to being an accessory after the fact in a homicide case.

_Not a good career move._ he thought.

Baines studied the other man's face. He couldn't read anything there but his every instinct told him that Robbins was up to something. He tapped the pile of papers that the reporter clutched.

"I know it's your job to dig dirt Robbins but be damned sure that what you're digging this time isn't your own grave." He shouldered his way past Ken.
CHAPTER 37

Blake eased the wagon into the brush enclosure they had come to think of as its parking space at the retreat. The trip back from meeting Ken had been mostly quiet. Callie had asked about the meeting and Blake had given her a brief account.

He seemed withdrawn and preoccupied. She wanted to know what he was thinking about but couldn't seem to find a way to broach the subject without seeming intrusive. Neither of them mentioned the encounter with the watchers.

They had stopped at a small market on the way and purchased a few provisions and necessary items. Blake absently picked up the paper bags and carried them to the cabin. Once inside he set them down on the table and checked the large crockery urn that held their drinking water. Replacing the lid he said, "I'll get some water and firewood."

Without saying anything further he walked outside and picked up the pail. Callie watched him walk across the compound toward the well. His easy stride ate up the yards. About half way to the well he swung the water pail as if swatting something in the air. His shoulders bunched with agitation.

After filling the pail she watched him attack the firewood with a savagery greater than that he had shown when he disabled the man who had used her as a shield. Wood split in two and flew several feet either way as he wielded the maul with deadly precision. His powerful muscles rippled and bunched with each stroke, the same overhand stroke that he had used to disable the watcher. She was struck by the differences in him. Blake had always been gentle with her, even during their night of shared passion. But she had seen a different side of him in the park. He could be ruthless, even dangerous.

His power and speed had rendered both the watchers incapacitated in mere moments. She was grateful for that. She shuddered to think what would have happened to her had he not been so competent. It struck her how safe she felt when he was near.

She'd not had anyone to protect her for a very long time. And Blake did protect her. More than that, he was always there when she needed him. He respected her abilities and ideas and even when he tried to tell her what to do, it was because he was thinking about her safety.

She could feel his frustration across the compound as she put the provisions onto the shelves of the pantry. Evening was coming on and the shadows crept inside the cabin, stepping ever further inside with the sound of splitting wood. She lit the oil lamp on the table as well as those hanging in sconces on the walls. The golden light made the gloom retreat and filled the wooden interior with a feeling of warmth and safety. She loved how the light from the lamps caused the grain in the fir planked walls to take on a friendly glow.

Blake entered with the firewood in one arm and the pail in his other hand. She hastened to take the pail from him. "Here, let me take that."

Blake yielded the bucket with a reluctant grace.

He bent over and deposited the firewood in the box next to the hearth before taking out several pieces of kindling to rebuild the fire from the warm embers banked in the hearth.

She took the water pail to the urn and carefully poured it in. She set the pail on the floor before replacing the crockery lid. Running her finger around the lip of the lid she became aware of Blake's gaze upon her. He was studying her with intensity. She laughed nervously and removed her finger from the crock lid.

She wore a genuinely happy expression as their eyes met. "You know, I'm getting very fond of this cabin."

She waited for his response but none came. He just continued to gaze at her, his eyes alive with suppressed heat.

"I wasn't sure about this place when you first brought me here. It seemed so remote, so removed from anything I knew. But now, I see it as a haven, a place of peace where I can center myself. Where I can relax and be myself in perfect safety."

She carried the pail over to set it on the floor near the hearth. As she straightened up Blake crossed the room in a couple of powerful strides. He took her in his arms and crushed her to his strong, broad chest. Her arms wound around him, feeling the ripple of muscles in his back as he tightened his embrace.

The smell of him filled her with warmth as golden as the light from the oil lamps. The musky aroma of his body mixed with the smell of wood smoke. The warm feeling in her core glowed like the rekindling embers in the hearth. Sensuality awakened in her as she felt her blood rushing through her veins like liquid desire.

She nuzzled deeper into his chest. Callie trailed her fingertips through his hair and across the back of his neck, before tracing ardent, loving, random designs on Blake's taught, muscled back. As she did, she could hear the rhythm of his heart increase along with her own.

Blake buried his nose in her hair, relishing its clean aroma. It smelled of pure sunshine. He tenderly kissed the top of her head and cradled it in his strong, long fingered hand. Each time he tenderly ran his fingers through her hair Callie felt waves of wellbeing and safety wash through her. She lost herself in the gentle, loving gestures from this man she wanted so desperately.

"I was afraid I might lose you." He said the words so softly that Callie was not sure she hadn't imagined them.

"What?" she asked. "What did you say?"

She held her breath in anticipation. Had she heard him correctly?

Blake smoothed her hair again. His hand languidly trailed over her neck and down her back to that delicious hollow at the base of her spine. The touch of his fingers lazily stroking the soft skin in the hollow sent small, diffuse bursts of ecstasy into the core of her.

He buried his nose in her hair. His lips tugged gently at the auburn mane. Kissing the top of her ear he whispered, "I was afraid I might lose you. I don't ever want to lose you Callie. I love you."

A thrill rushed through her. The resonance of his voice, the pressure of his words on her ear made her shiver with excitement and wanting.

She turned her face up to his. She could see the apprehension and smoldering passion in his eyes, those deep blue eyes that looked into her very soul.

"Blake. Oh Blake, I love you too." Her breathless reply softly sighed from her. "I've never known love like this. Despite all that we've been through, despite all that stands before us, I know that I want you, I love you, and I will forever."

Adoration beamed from him, fierce, proud, possessive. His mouth cam down on hers, gently at first but with growing intensity as she played her tongue over his parted lips.

He drew her lower lip between his teeth and nibbled gently on it. She clung to him, seeking to fuse her body to his.

Her nipples hardened as he drew her ever closer. She felt them crush against his muscled chest, sending increasing pulses of desire through her.

He withdrew from the kiss. It was agony to her as he did. She wanted to kiss him, to go on kissing him. To play her tongue over his and feel him respond hotly to her ministrations.

He buried his face in the hair against her neck. His intake of breath caused cool shivers to dance across her skin; each one fed the heat growing deep inside her.

She had to respond, the urge to caress him was overwhelming. Her fingers began to undo the buttons of his shirt.

The manly aroma of him engulfed her. Her urge became a driving need. She inhaled deeply, the pheromones from his skin flooded through her.

Her tongue snaked out, taking small tastes of his warm skin. The taste of him was seasoned with a mouth-watering salt tang. She felt herself falling into a sensual paradise of touch, sound, taste, smell.

Callie became aware of Blake's strong hands against her naked skin. He had pulled her shirt up enough to run his fingers across her back. The intense, searing feel of his touch coursed through her, feeding her desire, causing it to surge like magma in a volcano.

She was amazed that her tongue was not scalded by the fierce heat of his body as she licked and nipped at him.

His hands gripped her shirt lifting it higher, over her head. As he released it the shirt fell to the floor along with her inhibitions.

Blake's hands cupped her naked breasts. She purred with pleasure as he squeezed her, rolling and softly pinching her nipples.

Her nipples hardened even more, stretching the skin of her breasts to a delicious tightness. The heavy, achy feeling ran down through her to the floor of her pelvis where it transmuted into hot moisture between her legs.

Callie's hand slid boldly down his chest to the undeniable bulge in the front of his jeans. She could feel the heat radiating from his rigid shaft. It strained against the denim still more as she started at the bottom, caressing him with her fingernails through the fabric. He moaned with profound pleasure, arching his back to intensify the sensation of her caress.

She looked up at his face. His head was tilted back, his eyes were closed. The look of pure, intense, predatorily focused arousal fueled her ardor.

At some small rational place in the back of her mind she marveled that she could both inflame and control the dangerously passionate beast within him.

He growled with pleasure as he lowered his head. His eyes opened, meeting hers. He kissed her again, this time deeply, fervently and she responded with equal need.

Blake's hand traced a furrow of blazing sensation across the soft skin of her belly until it came to rest against her most tender spot.

Pausing but a moment there, he gently kneaded the fullness of her, cupped her, increasing the delicious warmth of her mound.

She parted her legs slightly, allowing him to more fully cover her with his hand. As she did so, one, finger, sensing the moisture of her, followed the dewy path inside her.

Her intake of breath was not mistaken for discomfort this time. Instead, his middle finger drove deeper, inexorably toward the center of her, applying gentle insistent pressure upward.

As he withdrew it part way she could feel the pleasurable spot inside her begin to respond. Again he massaged it gently as he pushed his finger back inside.

She shuddered, his name escaping her lips as the world spun away in colors of red and orange. "Now." she insisted.

Through the mists of passion she heard him softly whisper in her ear, "No."

Her mewl of disappointment was cut short as he swept her into his powerful arms. With a grace that belied his size, Blake ascended the ladder stairs into the loft.

He laid her gently onto the makeshift mattress where he had slept alone. The smell of him surrounded her as the cool sheets warmed with the heat of her body.

Blake grasped the top of her open jeans and with a deft move, swept them off and over the railing to the wood planked floor below.

He shed his shirt.

Before taking off his own jeans, he reached into the back pocket and removed two foil packets. One hit the floor of the loft, the other he placed near the edge of the bed.

Callie gloried in the look of him. Primal, powerful, aroused and wanting her; her alone. She smiled at him and extended her arms beguilingly, beckoning him to come to her.

Blake lowered himself to her. His rigid shaft pressed against her, tantalizing her with it's hot firmness. He began kissing her neck, her shoulder. Then his tongue trailed down to her nipple where it licked, sucked, nibbled her into disoriented arousal.

He tasted the skin of her belly, lazily licking and nipping his way ever lower. From deep inside his throat, he chuckled teasingly, naughtily as she became aware of his intentions.

She gasped with surprised pleasure as his nose nuzzled into the warm fur of her sex. His tongue darted in and out, parting her, teasing her, driving her into a frenzy of wanton need.

His middle finger resumed its intimate internal massage. She could feel herself swelling with desire, becoming engorged to the point of delicious agony.

His tongue flicked across the sensitive nub of her, tracing patterns of ecstasy across it.

The dual stimulation both inside her and outside reached a crescendo as her orgasm exploded in the colors of passion.

She shuddered, arched her back and pulled his head insistently to her groin, writhing in sweet torture against his rigid tongue.

He stopped his caresses, allowing her to return from the heights of her pleasure.

Just as she was becoming aware of herself again, he renewed his tender assault on her senses.

She soared again to the outer reaches of tolerance begging him with panted words to stop.

She was lost in the intensity of heat and sexual release. It was almost unbearable.

As her breathing returned to panting from gasps of pleasure she saw him, his shaft even more engorged than before. It veritably pulsed with his throbbing hunger for her.

Deftly, he opened the condom's packet and sheathed himself.

He fell forward on his powerful extended arms. She was aware of his desire, his need for her, for her alone.

She arched her pelvis to meet his thrust. She was so aroused, so wet that he slid quickly, deeply within her.

The heat and thickness of him stretched her deliciously. He filled her so fully, so completely. The length of his shaft teased at the very inside depth of her.

She met his powerful thrusts with thrusts of her own. She enticingly tightened her body around his hard length each time he withdrew.

Shudders of pleasure echoed through him and into her. They fueled her ardor and her desire to pleasure him as much as he had pleasured her.

At last, when she thought she could take no more stimulation, he came to his peak.

His body convulsed as the groan of satisfaction escaped his throat.

His climax reverberated within her as she arched against him, driven by the maddening, tingling waves of electricity his erection generated within her.

They were locked together in mutual ecstasy. Their connection was deeper, more profound than any she had ever experienced.

Callie had read about 'afterglow' in romance novels and women's magazines but she never understood it until now.

As she lay, cradled against Blake's muscled shoulder she reveled in the warmth of him. Their legs were intertwined under the covers.

She could feel his body touching her from her head to her toes and she reveled in the feeling. An air of satisfied, satiated loving permeated the loft where they lay.

"Blake?" she asked softly.

"Hmmmmm?" There was a dreamy quality to his deep voice as he caressed her hair. He wound it loosely around his fingers and then let it fall away.

He loved the feel of her hair passing through his fingers, like spun red-gold sunshine he could touch.

Callie paused. She wanted this feeling to go on forever but she knew that she was about to shatter it.

There was a nagging question pushing at her. One that had been there since they drove away from the park. She knew that there was a risk asking it but she could not let it rest. She braced herself for Blake's response.

"Blake," she began tenuously, "how do you think those men knew about the meeting in the park?"

His hand stopped in mid caress. He stared at her with an intensity that almost burned. Those deep blue eyes searched her face for some glimmer of her meaning. She felt the weight of his gaze on her as it bore down, chilling the warmth of their embrace.

"What?" The dreaminess was gone. The predator within him stirred to waking.

"Those men in the park. They had to know about the meeting. How do you think they knew?" she could feel him tensing as he turned.

She retreated out of his embrace. He propped himself on one elbow as his eyes bored into her. "What are you really asking?" His tone was cool, reserved, bordering on suspicious.

Callie took a deep breath. This was the moment she had dreaded. She knew that she wanted Blake.

He had told her that he wanted her.

Their relationship, if it was in fact a relationship, was very new. Fragile. The question she had asked had strained it. The next question could shatter it.

"Well, beside you and me, only one other person knew when and where we would be." She tried to keep her voice even but she was certain that it had trembled when she spoke.

Blake stared at her. She could not read any emotion on his face. It had turned to stone. No, that wasn't quite right. Stone could still hold warmth. His face was ice.

"Are you suggesting that Ken set us up?" The ice mask crackled ominously under the pressure of the question. The words came out with forced calmness. The implicit challenge stood between them.

Callie chose her words carefully. "I'm not suggesting anything. I am asking, how could those men have known to be at that park at that time?"

She would not back down. It was a reasonable question and one that had to be answered if they were to find a way out of this situation. Surely, Blake had to see that. He was a rational man, an executive. He didn't make emotional judgments. He weighed facts, examined options, and then arrived at reasoned conclusions.

Callie watched Blake closely. She saw the ice begin to melt as the implications of her question sank in. They had been very careful thus far. Certainly, none of her contacts could have betrayed them because none of them knew about the meeting.

"Hmmmmm. I see what you mean. Even if they were looking for us in camping grounds, the chances that they would turn up at that particular campground, at that specific time and find us are astronomical. I suppose that it could happen but I'd guess you had a better chance of being hit by lightening or winning the Irish Sweepstakes."

Callie found that she had been holding her breath, waiting for whatever response Blake would make.

She exhaled and tried to think beyond the question. There had to be some leak that they didn't know about. She began to run through some possibilities in her mind. She must have been concentrating very hard on them because she startled when Blake placed his hand on her bare shoulder.

"Callie, where are you? What are you thinking about so hard?" his voice was warmer, more engaged. Obviously his defensiveness was evaporating quickly.

"I was just trying to think of how they might have known." She saw a disquieted look flash across his face.

"I know you don't want to believe that your old college buddy could betray you but, what if he did?" She hastened to add, "I'm not saying that he did. I'm just trying to look at all the possibilities."

The lucid, executive decision making part of Blake heard the words. He didn't like them but he did hear them.

"Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say he did." He was struggling with the concept that someone he knew so well could sell him out. "People don't do things for no reason. So, what would Ken get out of setting us up?"

"I don't know. Money? A story? Some kind of favor or reward?" she tried to think of the classic motives for betrayal.

Blake found he could look at the problem more analytically now. "Well, let's throw out the story angle right away. As I said, 'corrupt murdering politician pretending to be an upright citizen' is a much better story than 'former college buddy executive kills secretary.' He would much rather have Sampson's head on a pole than mine. And that goes double for his editor."

"Okay, how about money? Everyone likes money, but some people like it more than others. Or maybe he has some kind of financial problems." Callie was relieved that they were discussing this logically.

"Ken's not rolling in dough but he makes a good salary. Besides, for him it's more about getting to the truth. He's so damned straight arrow it hurts." Blake smiled and snorted a little laugh.

"I remember when we were at school; there was a guy in our frat that was selling exam answers. Ken found out about it and went to the chancellor as well as the chapter. He offered to set the guy up. He didn't want him to get off. He wanted to take him down."

"What happened?" Callie wanted to have a reason that Ken would not have betrayed Blake's trust.

"The powers that be agreed to let him run his sting. Ken let it be known that he was in trouble in one class and that, without passing, he was going to have to do at least another semester. The guy approached him about buying the exam answers. Ken hemmed and hawed. He ran all the moral doubts by the guy and finally, reluctantly agreed to buy the answers from him." Blake laughed again.

"Just as the money and the answers changed hands, the chapter provost and the dean charged in. I thought the guy was going to soil himself."

"So, did they do anything to him?" Callie was enthralled by Blake's telling of the story.

"Oh yeah!" Blake sounded more confident in his conviction that Ken was not the leak.

"The guy tried to say that he was just collecting some money that Ken had borrowed from him. That didn't fly so he tried acting like he was coming clean. He said that he was giving the money to Ken and that Ken was the one selling the exam answers. He looked pretty sure that it would work until Ken took the tape recorder out of his jacket pocket and replayed their conversation."

"Right, then." Callie said emphatically. "Scratch one straight arrow from the suspect list."

"There's a list? I mean a list longer than one suspect?" Blake looked puzzled.

"Of course." Callie replied, touching his cheek gently with her palm.

"Of course." Blake replied as he kissed her palm. "But, do any of these other suspects have names? I mean other than, 'person or persons unknown'?"

"Oh, they have names alright. To begin with, there's Liz."

"Liz?" Blake was incredulous. "How the hell could Liz be a suspect? We never talked to her about the meeting."

"Correction, we didn't talk to her directly. But it's possible to do it without knowing." Callie paused, studying the look of utter confusion on Blake's face.

"Let me explain." she said, sliding into educator mode. "You've heard of hacking, right?"

"From you." came his terse reply.

She shook her head. "You are hopelessly un-nerdy. You know that don't you?"

He smiled shyly. "I'm just a nineteenth century guy trapped in the twenty first century. And damned proud of it."

"Okay Jim Bridger. Pay attention."

Blake looked at her with surprised admiration. "You know about Jim Bridger?"

"Hey, just because I don't wear moccasins and eat raccoon ragout doesn't mean I don't know a bit about American History. I'll have you know I got _very_ good grades in school." She poked playfully at his broad, muscular chest.

A rosy hue of chagrin colored her creamy cheeks. "Besides, Liz sent me a list of bios for famous Mountain Men. I've been cramming."

Ignoring his pout, she pressed on with her thoughts. "Now, pay attention while I try to drag you kicking and screaming into the modern era."

Blake put his hand over his heart and bowed to her. "Enlighten me oh wise one." he said as he genuflected again.

Callie shook her head in mock disgust. "I'll try to penetrate that buffalo hide. Okay, a good hacker can rig a cell phone so that whenever a call is made or received, the spy gets a text saying that it's happening. Then, if the spy wants to listen in, they call the phone being hacked. They just mute their voice and they can listen in on a hidden conference call."

"Holy cow." Blake sputtered. "I thought that only the government could do things like that. I mean the CIA and such like."

"Nope." Callie said flatly. "You can buy the technology on the internet and get complete instructions on how to use it."

"And Liz could do that?" he asked incredulously.

"Sure. But like with Ken, she would need a motive to do it."

"Does she have a motive?" Blake asked.

"She might if she thought you were taking advantage of me. Or if you were hurting me. But she knows better than that." She grinned at Blake.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "So she knows better, huh? Does that mean there's been girl talk behind my back?"

Callie smiled teasingly. "Where else would we have girl talk? I've said too much already. If the sisterhood found out, I could be barred."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Blake put his finger alongside his nose and nodded knowingly. It was such a charmingly obsolete gesture. Callie laughed at it.

Resuming a more serious demeanor, she continued with her earlier thought. "I can't see her doing it for money either. Liz is a hacker. She trawls for information and isn't shy about embarrassing companies she sees as being wrong doers. Unlike poor Trish, she's not a blackmailer. Well at least not for money. For change, for justice, sure; but not for money. Besides, I've never heard her say anything about Farmington's one way or the other. She's pretty vocal about companies that piss her off so if she had a beef with Farmington's I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about it."

Blake mulled over what Callie had said. "Okay, so we can pretty much eliminate Liz from the list, anyone else you can think of?"

Callie smiled demurely. "Well, that's where we get a bit murkier. We have to consider unknown people who might have seen or heard something when we were talking to Ken or Liz."

"Ah, I _knew_ that we'd get to the inevitable 'person or persons unknown." He couldn't resist the temptation to tease her.

"I think it's important to point out that, while they might be unknown to us, they are probably not unknown to Liz or Ken." She gave back as well as she took.

"I'm not sure I follow you." Blake said.

"Well, think about it for a minute. Liz plays her cards so close to the chest that she's almost clinically paranoid. I can't see her blabbing to just anyone. Maybe buying three burn phones caused someone to get suspicious but I don't even see that as likely."

Callie paused momentarily to think about the possibilities before she continued her thought. "Liz knows about the watchers, she knows what we're trying to do; she knows about Trish's blackmailing Will, I just can't see her buying all three phones at the same time or in the same place. Not even at places near each other."

Blake nodded, her logic was undeniable. "That pretty much leaves Ken then." he said reluctantly. "Like I said before, I don't see the leak being his editor. No offense, I know the guy's a friend of yours, but Ken's editor has taken a hard stance against Sampson's candidacy. "

Callie threw up her hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Hold it a minute. Will Sampson is not a friend, he's not a boyfriend. He's an acquaintance. Someone I went out with – casually went out with – a couple of times. After that, I decided Will wasn't someone I wanted to spend a lot of time with."

Blake's mood soared. "Okay, not a friend. Got it." He smiled warmly at Callie. Not that he couldn't handle it, but it was good to know the competition had been knocked out of the running.

Blake continued. "So if it wasn't the editor, the question is, who? Like Liz, I can't see Ken blabbing about meeting with us. If nothing else, the chance of losing a major scoop would keep him quiet."

"You called him at work, right?" Callie asked.

"Yeah." Blake responded. "What about it?"

"Well, what if someone overheard your conversation?"

"What if they did? Ken never said my name." he replayed the conversation in his mind. "And, he never repeated the name of the meeting place. I'm sure of it."

"Photographic, sorry I mean eidetic memory again?" Callie teased him gently about his powers of recall, feeling her way carefully in their new found relationship.

"Pretty much." He grinned at her.

"Okay." she continued. "So he didn't say either your name or the name of the meeting place. But, what if someone saw something? Maybe they used the old pencil lead rubbing on the note pad trick to see the impression of a note."

Blake pondered that possibility. It was an old trick but one that lots of people knew. "But how would they know it related to us? He must get hundreds of tips. Even if they saw him write down Long Horse Lake, how would they know _we_ would be there?"

"Maybe they know that you two are old college chums. I mean, it's not a big secret is it?" she suggested.

"No, it's not a secret." Blake weighed the possibilities. "Depending on who's after us, it might make sense to risk sending someone to Long Horse Lake to look around. But, if that's the case, then Ken needs to know that there's a leak in his organization. Imagine how much damage someone like that could do to any investigation."

"I agree that he needs to know but, let's not call him just now. No sense tipping our hand to whoever the spy is. He's going to call when he's had a chance to run Trish's information to ground, right?" Callie winced inwardly at the disturbing thought of Trish, her half sister having been a blackmailer.

"Yeah. And I remembered to tell him to call from a payphone somewhere." Blake reached over to tenderly touch her hand.

"I'm really glad you insisted I tell him that. Especially now that someone is spying inside his office. We had too close a call already. It would be a lot worse if they got a firm handle on where to look for us."

His eyelid snapped in a wink that was both knowing and somehow suggestive. "I am so grateful to have found a smart woman to be my partner in crime."

Blake took her hand in his, turned it over, and tenderly kissed her palm. Callie was filled with a serenity that emanated from her very soul. Despite their peril; despite the uncertainty of their situation; no matter how this all came out; there was nowhere else she would rather be than here with Blake, _her_ mountain man.
CHAPTER 38

Ken Robbins was in investigative reporter heaven. He had chosen to work from his home office and, right now, he was really thankful that he had. The information about a connection between Will Sampson and Hong Sheng was pure dynamite. If it was true, Sampson was connected, intimately connected to a big time Seattle bad guy. Even if he was only a local player and not an international criminal, Sampson's association with him made this story Pulitzer Prize material.

Was his editor going to love it! Sampson had always been kind of vague about how he got his start. There were the usual stories about hard work, saving his pennies, investing wisely and so on. He was the All American Boy. But this information made it clear that he was an All American Boy just like Al Capone had been.

Sampson's start really began with poaching and trading in illegal animal parts. From the notes that Blake had given him, Ken even had evidence that Sampson had continued his illegal activity right up to the eve of declaring his candidacy. This was a story of corruption, deception, and down-right lying that would ruin Sampson.

He'd be lucky to just get tossed out of the election. It was far more likely that, given his links to organized crime, he would end up doing a long stretch in prison.

Ken picked up the phone in his home office and placed the call that was going to make his career a shining success.

"Hello, J.P?" He rocked forward, suddenly all business. "Yeah," He waited for the next rapid fire question. "Yeah, let me save you some time boss."

Ken shuffled the papers into a neater stack, ensuring that his yellow note pad was atop the pile. "I've checked on all the allegations that the source gave me. I don't know who the original researcher was but everything, I mean _every_ _thing_ ," he repeated it as two words for emphasis, "checks out. One hundred percent."

The excited voice of his editor was loud enough to force Ken to move the phone away from his ear.

"Right," he said into the phone, being careful to keep the earpiece several inches from his head. "Right, I'm going to try and contact the source today."

He listened again as J.P. Kleinmann fired another salvo of questions at him. "No, it's kinda complicated. We still have to worry about protecting him for the moment."

A torrent of words, liberally spiced with invectives flowed out of the cordless handset. Ken rolled his eyes and waited for his editor to finish his tirade.

"J.P." he said with patience.

He repeated it, a little louder this time. "J.P."

Finally, he raised his voice loud enough to be heard through the flood of opinion spewing from the phone.

"I know this source. You _know_ I know this source. Once it's known that everything has been confirmed, the source is going to want to confront Sampson directly. It's the only way this person does things."

He took a breath and waited. His editor remained silent for a nano second. Ken took that as an indication that he should continue.

"I plan to be there when the confrontation goes down." That unleashed another salvo of questions, opinions, and inventive cursing.

"Boss, I know this source almost as well as I know myself. Trust me, I'll be there. If nothing else, I'm a witness who can validate the allegations. It's going to be dynamite. Absolute dynamite."

The volume didn't change but the doubts that had been spewing out of the phone a moment before changed to cautious optimism. Editors had to live with the stories they approved. J.P. Kleinmann had not survived thirty-five years in journalism by being sloppy. Well, not sloppy in his judgments at least. The condition of his office was another matter all together.

The burn phone buzzed and vibrated on the trestle table. Callie looked at the caller ID. The number showed that the call was coming from Seattle, nothing more. She answered the phone as they had planned.

"Sideshow Theater." She made her voice reflect the perky, just post adolescent vigor of the average theater ticket taker.

"I'd like two tickets for the Saturday matinee please." The reply was firm, businesslike. Ken sounded exactly like a harried businessman. The code had been worked out so that by asking for the matinee he indicated that he was alone and able to speak.

Callie handed the phone to Blake. "Ken." she said. "Says he's alone."

Blake eyes darkened with resolve as he took the phone from her. Their safety was at risk and he knew that he must confront Ken if they were ever to find out if he was responsible for the leak that almost got Callie taken by the watchers. His fingers momentarily lingered on hers before he raised the phone to his ear.

"Kenny." he said with more conviviality than he felt.

"Well, old buddy," Ken began excitedly, "My editor has cleared the story. I don't know where you got your info but Sampson is up to his ears in it. What's the next move?"

"Well, _old buddy_ ," Blake's voice was laced with heavy sarcasm mixed with menace. "If there is a next move, I'm not sure you're going to be involved in it."

Ken was stunned into silence. He all but took the phone away from his ear and looked at it. Blake sounded angry but Ken could not imagine why.

"What do you mean? Why wouldn't I be involved?" he asked in genuine puzzlement. "If you didn't want me involved, why set me up like this?"

Ken's mind wheeled crazily with possibilities before the realization dawned on him. Blake didn't trust him. "What's wrong? Is there a problem?"

"You're damned right there's a problem." Blake's angry response was like a slap in the face. Ken actually reeled backward a step.

"What the hell's going on? What happened?" Ken pressed hard for more information.

Blake took a deep breath. He ruthlessly pushed his anger down and, as calmly as possible, explained about the watchers, the assault on Callie, the camp host confronting them, everything. When he finished he just stopped. The silence hung in the air like choking smoke.

Ken began to recover from his shock and horror. Blake somehow thought he was responsible for all that.

"Whoa, whoa there big fella." he objected. "Why would I _ever_ do something like that?"

His mind reeled at the allegation. He had known Blake Farmington for almost twenty years. How could Blake believe that he would turn on him like that?

"You're the only person who knew the time and place Kenny." Blake's accusation hissed over the airwaves. "Suppose you tell me. Better yet, tell me who besides yourself knew of our meeting?"

"Hey, I told you before; the only person who knew I was meeting you was my editor. Hell, I didn't even tell him where. Just that I was meeting you because you had some hot information for me." Ken took a long, deep breath before continuing.

"Besides, J.P. would never jeopardize a source. I've seen him protect flakes and liars because he doesn't want anyone to ever honestly say that his ethics are selective. I saw him can a reporter about five years ago because the guy hinted, _hinted_ , to the cops who his source might be."

He paused for emphasis then he continued. "No, it wasn't J.P. and it sure wasn't me. We go back _way_ too far for that." Ken took a breath. "How could you even think that of me?" Indignity, injury, and incomprehension flowed over the phone lines.

The sincerity and affront in Ken's voice was so profound that Blake knew he'd had no direct hand in the watchers finding them. But they had known where and when to find them. There had to be a leak somewhere.

"Okay Kenny, I believe you. If you say you didn't talk to anyone that's good enough for me. You vouch for your editor, that's good enough too I guess. I know about J.P.'s ethics but it's good to have it confirmed. Still, that leaves us with the question, how did those pukes know where to look for us?"

Neither man spoke for some time. They were running through the possibilities. It was Callie who broke the silence.

"Did he write the time and location down on a note?" she asked. "Maybe it got dropped and someone else found it."

Blake relayed her question to Ken.

A thought occurred to Blake. He turned his attention back to Callie. "Wait, even if that happened, what are the chances that someone connected to the watchers would find it and know that it was about us?"

Callie shrugged and resumed her efforts to unravel the mystery.

On the other end of the line there was a sharp intake of air.

"Sonavabitch." Ken hissed with true venom. "That sonavabitch Yardley." He banged his fist against the body of the payphone. The fiberglass shell of the booth rattled.

Blake's predatory senses slammed into high gear and his voice growled threateningly. "Who's Yardley?"

"Jack Yardley." came Ken's equally hostile reply. "He's a reporter on the crime desk. Real sleaze ball. A bit of an alkie and he has the ethics of a snake."

"And you mentioned our meeting to him?" Blake asked incredulously.

"No. Of course not. I wouldn't give him the time of day for fear he would turn it against me. No, but his desk is across the aisle from mine in the newsroom. He was there taking his mid-day tipple when you called."

Ken fell silent as he replayed his memory of Blake's call and what he'd done. "Okay, you told me to not use your name so I didn't."

It was a statement, not a question. "I didn't write down the location in my notebook. Didn't want it in there just in case." He reran the situation slowly in his mind.

"I didn't repeat the name of the lake, did I? I don't remember it but I suppose I could have."

Blake concentrated on the previous conversation. "No. No you didn't say the name. I remember. But you told me to wait a second. Do you remember why you did that?"

Ken replayed that segment of his memory. "I did write it down.... That's right. There're so many similar sounding lakes. Long Lake, Horse Lake, Big Horse reservoir, I didn't want to get it confused in the excitement."

He paused again. "But I fed that note through J.P.'s shredder before I left. There's no way I dropped it."

Ken suddenly shouted, "Wait."

Blake did.

"I had the note on top of some stuff I was taking into J.P. anyway. Yardley was close to the aisle and he was kind of leaned over in his chair. I thought he had dropped something. He usually does after hitting the bottle all day. It's possible that he saw the note. He knows that we were at school together. Maybe he put two and two together and got lucky."

Blake had been to the newsroom and seen Ken's desk set up. It was just possible that the leak had occurred as Ken had just speculated. "So, Yardley sees the note. Knows that we're old friends. How does he know where to pass on the information?"

"Yardley has always been a crime reporter. He doesn't have any connection to politics. I suspect that, if he called Sampson's campaign, they would just shove him off to some low level staffer." The impact of the information Blake had given him suddenly came into play.

"However, now that we know Sampson has ties to organized crime, maybe there is a nexus. Or at least a back door." Ken's reporter's instincts were tingling.

"Yardley did have a sneaky conversation with some 'hot female' tipster just before he hustled off to Morrison right after you 'went for a walk' shall we say? Maybe the line goes both ways. It was pretty evident that I was leaving to follow up a lead. Maybe that's how it happened."

Everything Ken said made sense. Blake was fuming but he couldn't afford to get sidetracked now. The best thing was to isolate all contact with Ken from anyone. "Okay, we'll deal with that snake Yardley in a bit. For right now, I don't want any contact with you unless it's from a pay phone."

"Agreed." said Ken. He could hear Callie's voice talking to Blake.

"Right." The simple word started soft grew louder as Blake brought the burn phone closer to his face. "Callie suggests that you not use the same pay phone twice in a row. She's concerned that, if you're being watched and they know what phone you are using, they could bug it and get onto us that way as well."

"Okay." Ken replied. "I'll also be a lot more careful about who's in my vicinity, watch out for someone following me, et cetera."

"This may help you. I don't know about the car but, Callie says that the guys who jumped her in the park were dressed like the two who chased her a few days before then. Dark suits, wraparounds, and combat boots. All of them have shaved heads. Like they're ex-military or mercs." Blake paused as Callie added something else. "Yeah. She says that they probably are all driving similar dark grey sedans with smoked windows. That should be a dead giveaway up here. Not enough sun to warrant smoked windows."

"Okay, I'll be leery of any dark suited, bullet headed thugs in wraparound sunglasses driving dark sedans. This is beginning to sound like a bad spy movie with uniformed henchmen." Ken chuckled a bit.

"It'd be funny except these clowns seem to really mean business."

The terseness of Blake's response refocused Ken's attention. "Right."

Ken continued with a hint of malicious glee in his voice. "And Blake, don't worry about Yardley. Leave him to me, or rather, to J.P."

Blake understood completely. Whatever he could devise to punish Yardley would pale in comparison to what J.P. Kleinmann would come up with.

"Okay. But it better be good." Blake still wanted to rip out Yardley's heart. Upon reflection, he realized that he was having enough difficulty getting out of being _accused_ of murder. He couldn't afford to actually commit one.

"Callie and I have a bit of planning to do. Let's talk again tomorrow. Use a different pay phone. And, let's be thorough; make it two hours later than today. No sense setting up patterns for someone to latch onto."

"Makes sense." Ken replied. "And Blake, no hard feelings, right?"He was still genuinely troubled that Blake might distrust him. He worried not for the story but for their friendship.

"No hard feelings Kenny." Blake spoke with ironclad sincerity and more than just a little regret for having doubted him. "It was just bad luck that Yardley tumbled to us. Let's learn from this and keep things really tight from now on. Just like we did with the 'exam answers' sting back in college."

Ken hove a sigh of relief. "Thanks buddy." He put the payphone receiver back on the hook.
CHAPTER 39

Callie and Blake had settled into something of a routine at the retreat. There were daily chores to do but, for the most part, Callie felt that she was being relegated to mostly inside tasks. Blake did almost all of the cooking but, then again, she didn't have his knowledge or experience when it came to what was edible and how to cook it.

He, on the other hand, did most of the heavy work such as splitting logs into usable sizes and carrying the water from the well. Especially when he was splitting wood, Callie accompanied him. It was a chance to talk to each other as well as an opportunity for her to get outside in the fresh air. It was surprising to her that such warm days could be followed by such cool nights.

Callie sat on a section of cut log watching Blake split 'slices' off of another one. The inch or so thick slabs fell away from the log segment under his forceful strokes. He called the slabs 'Bible leaves' after the old term used by whalers. Blake explained that the thin slices of log made it easier and faster for him to make kindling. As she watched him cleaving off another slice she asked, "How do you know which logs are going to work for slicing?"

Blake stopped his labor and wiped his brow on his sleeve. He gave the axe what looked like a casual one handed swing. It thunked into the splitting stump where it stayed at an angle. He sat on a log segment and smiled at her.

"I could tell you some tall tale about an old medicine man giving me the power to listen to the logs and that they tell me." His grin broadened. The angular planes of his face rearranged themselves. His blue eyes twinkled brightly with mischief. "But, I assume you want a serious answer."

"Well, that _would_ be nice." she replied, coiling a strand of auburn hair around her finger with an absentmindedness that Blake found both adorable and alluring. It was almost as delightful as the habit she had of thoughtfully chewing on her lower lip.

Blake hefted a piece of log onto his knee. "Scoot your log a little closer and I'll show you."

Callie moved closer to him. As she did she caught a whiff of his scent. It reminded her of their lovemaking and she felt herself beginning to respond to his presence.

Blake turned the log around, showing her the bark encircling the wood. "See how there are almost no branch nubs?" he pointed out the virtually uninterrupted grain of the bark.

"Uh-huh." She studied the rough gray skin of the log. The scent of wood and warm man was fast becoming her favorite cologne. She was amazed to notice how profoundly the sight and smell of him fueled her desire for him.

"See how there are only little branch nubs? Smaller than a pencil? And how there aren't even many of them?" he continued with the lesson.

"Yeah." She responded, following the trace of his finger as it skipped from nub to nub on the bark.

Flipping the log onto its side so she could see the cross section he said, "Now look at the end. See how the grain looks evenly spaced?"

"Right." She could see that the rings of the wood were not too close together and appeared to be of even size.

"That's what I look for. Best bet is that, with even grain and no big branch nubs, the log is going to split into fairly even leaves." He smiled broadly at her.

"Is that always the case?" she asked.

"No. Sometimes the tree grows with a twist. If that happens, it's a real bear to get through. The twist binds the axe and it's a pain to get it to split. When that happens, you can forget about making leaves." He set the log segment down and picked up one of the slices he had just finished shearing off.

"See, even, straight grain." He ran his finger just above the wood, wanting to avoid picking up any splinters that might be protruding. "That also makes the leaves come out pretty uniform thickness as well."

He stood up saying, "Okay, class over. Gotta make some kindling so we can get the fire going in the morning."

As he took the slice over to the taller stump he used to make kindling. Callie got to her feet and went with him. "Blake, I've watched you make kindling. I'd like to try it."

He looked at her momentarily and then said, "Okay. Mind if I show you first? I mean, you've always been kind of far back. Might help to see the process up close and personal."

She smiled and nodded. Blake showed her how to use the corner of the hand axe blade as a wedge. The pieces of kindling flew off the 'Bible leaf', hitting the ground with a musical tone.

Handing Callie the axe, Blake asked, "Okay? See how it's done?"

"Yep." came her confident reply.

Blake handed her his gloves and positioned her hand so that she would hold the wood as safely as possible.

"Okay. Have at it."

Callie plunged her small hands onto his capacious gloves. The warmth of them startled her as did Blake's unique aroma, drifting out of them to tease at her senses.

Callie's first attempt resulted in the corner of the axe sticking in the wood. She began struggling to dislodge it but Blake stopped her.

"Pick it all up and bring it down on the stump." he said, miming the action with his empty hands.

Callie's followed his gesture and was rewarded with a flying stick that made a lovely tone as it hit the ground. She laughed with glee.

"Pretty good." Blake said.

He was charmed by her laugh, her determination, her ... well her spirit. "You really are a wonder aren't you?" his smile of approval was enhanced by the light of genuine pleasure that shown in his eyes.

Callie looked at him questioningly.

Blake's smile broadened. "You're really smart, very lovely, and you can make kindling too. I may just have to marry you after all."

She flushed a bit at his praise. Despite her yearning to be with him always, her insides fluttered at the idea of marriage. He had said he loved her. She knew that she loved him but how could she ever expect to fit into his world of 'airs and graces'?

Callie tried again with the axe and was successful on the first stroke. She beamed at Blake.

His heart melted with tenderness toward this remarkable woman. She really was all those things and so much more. He yearned to take her in his arms but he also knew that she was focused on learning this new skill.

Her intensity was alluring to him but he also recognized that, even though his desire to make love to her here, now, outside, was almost overwhelming; it would be disrespectful to interfere while she learned her new skill.

_A time and a place for everything._ he reminded himself.

Bridling his rising passion, Blake said, "Well, looks like making kindling is your new chore."

He was rewarded with a smile that could only be called radiant. Her auburn hair moved in the breeze creating patterns of red-gold fire that only stoked his desire for her.

Smiling, he continued, "Really, I appreciate the help. It'll make getting the wood in a whole lot faster."

Callie heard his words but they were lost in her excitement at finding a doorway into Blake's personal world. The axe in her hand rose and fell, shearing off almost uniformly square sticks of wood. It struck her that maybe making kindling was a good metaphor how they could chip away at the social and financial barriers that might stand between their love and his family. Shared work, then shared lives.

She smiled. A pinpoint of hope glimmered in her emerald green eyes.

Blake had worked to improve the comfort of the cabin. He brought the long wooden garden bench inside. It had bent wood arms and a back. Using sacking and dried grass he'd made a comfortable pillow for the seat and, combined with a few of the thicker blankets over the back, it made a very suitable love seat.

They lounged, luxuriating in the comfort of the bench and each other. Callie sat cuddled against him. His muscular arms firmly encircled her, holding her close to him. One of Blake's legs was stretched out along the seat of the bench, the other dangled over the edge and onto the floor. She sat against him as if he were a chaise lounge. The heat from his core warmed her.

As she shifted position, she rubbed against that most male part of him. She felt it stir like a dragon roused from its torpor.

Mischievously, she shifted again, feeling its warmth and firmness growing with her small movements. Shifting her head she peered impishly into his sapphire blue eyes. "Don't you ever get tired?"

They had spent the day doing the manual chores that had been neglected because of the need to meet with and then call Ken.

A look of naughtiness tugged at his face, lifting the corners of his mouth. It rearranged the short stubble of his beard like footsteps in ashes. "Not when it comes to the important things."

Callie saw the flames from the fire reflecting in his darkened eyes _. Just like smoldering embers of desire._ she mused.

He bent down and kissed her. Slowly, tenderly at first but with an ever escalating, even fierce ardor that mirrored the response she felt from his lower body.

As the kiss ended she stroked his cheek with her palm. The rasp of rough stubble against her hand accented his manliness.

"Hmmm" she murmured, "I see what you mean."

Desire welled up inside her swamping her doubts about family, society, even what came tomorrow. She didn't care about what came later. She had fallen in love, truly in love, for the first time.

Blake's love had given her a new life and she didn't want to miss a moment of it. She wanted to bathe in new her newfound sensuality, her awakened sexuality, and mostly in Blake's tenderness and desire for her.

She shifted further so that her side lay along the length of him. The pressure on her hip was undeniable.

The dragon was fully awake now and prepared to please them both. She could feel the heavy fullness, the heated length of him pulsing against her.

A surge of arousal swept over her, starting with a pulsating fullness in her feminine center, it rushed upward causing her nipples to harden, her pulse to race, and her mouth to water.

Something about Blake blew away her reserve like leaves in an autumn wind. His desire for her inflamed her like no other man's interest ever had.

Slowly, she slid off the edge of the loveseat. As she did, her hands trailed down his broad chest. Blake's excitement grew with their downward progress. Callie's hands came to rest at the waistband of his jeans.

Her nimble fingers plucked at the studs, all but freeing the dragon to emerge from its lair. It strained against the last barrier, his knit cotton undergarment.

Smiling sexily, alluringly, Callie glanced up at Blake's face. His eyes were ablaze with impatient passion. She could see his mounting excitement reflected in their dark blue pools.

She grabbed the waistband and tugged impatiently downward. His manhood sprang free.

The musky, manly aroma of him flooded her senses and fueled her hunger for him.

She was overcome with the need to taste him more intimately than mere kisses and nibbles. Her mouth slowly but inexorably took in the sueded length of him.

Blake surrendered himself to her exquisite, scorching ministrations. He enjoyed the novelty of being taken by her. Her insistence, her boldness fueled his craving for her like never before. He knew he loved and needed her with every fiber of his being. Surrendering to her filled him with an undeniable feeling of intense pleasure and inflamed his need for her.

Each slow, encompassing, intimate kiss drove him to even wilder longing.

A powerful groan issued from his throat and rumbled through every part of him. She looked up at him with eyes smoldering darkly.

She knew she had him completely within her control.

She took his hands in hers and guided him to the thick fur rug on the floor. The warmth of the hearth had spread to the fur making it a soft, pillowy place for lovemaking.

They shed their useless clothing. Neither could abide any barrier between them save that necessary for caution.

Tension coiled tightly within her core, yearning for release. It became a rush of heat that coalesced into a burning need for him to enter her.

Warm moist skin met warm moist skin as their bodies melded in slow, molten congress.

The luscious weight of his powerful body pinned her inexorably to the floor.

She writhed under him driving him deeper inside. She reveled in feeling the fullness of him stretch her to near unbearable limits. But she could not, would not escape him.

His velvety, rigid shaft stroked her with a carefully measured beat.

Blake's hand found its way to the most sensitive part of her. A finger pressed, whirled, teased at her until she erupted with ecstasy.

His thrusting grew deeper, faster, all control gone as he buried himself again and again in her soft, full, moist heat.

Callie was so aroused that, each plunge deep inside her caused another eruption of shuddering sensation.

Then, when she was sure she couldn't endure another shock of ecstasy, his face contorted, his body went rigid and his manhood seemed to swell even more, deep within her.

He came to his climax with that final powerful thrust.

His body convulsed with pleasure, his face a mask of fierce possession.

Perspiration glistened on their bodies cooling their skin like rain quelling a raging forest fire. Callie sheltered under a powerful arm that embraced her without constraining her.

A soft purr escaped her throat. "I could stay like this forever." she whispered.

"I know what you mean." he said, softly stroking the length of her body. Shivers of sensation ran through her. Blake gazed at her with loving satisfaction. Their souls had touched, melded. Now they coexisted in the warm cocoon of sated lovemaking.

Callie steeled herself. _There will come a day when we can linger after lovemaking_. she reminded herself. A day when this nightmare would be over.

"But that's not going to help us clear your name or get justice for Trish's murder, is it?" Her eyes closed as she said it. She hoped to squeeze back the disappointment which threatened to escape her control.

As she spoke his blue eyes grew stormy, darkness replaced love's light. Was that disappointment or distress she saw deep within them?

Frost bit the blissful bloom of contentment. His voice was as cold as a mountain wind. "No, it isn't."

She felt his body stiffen with resolve. He was leaving even before he began to move. Regret washed through her like a chilled rain, cooling the afterglow she had felt only moments before.

Blake shifted onto his side. His head was propped on one large hand. The firelight played across his naked skin and Callie's breath caught at the sight of his glorious manliness. _At least we had this time_. she thought.

His face transformed into a mask of seriousness. The tenderness that had been there was replaced by a penetrating intelligence.

"You're right. We need to decide what we are going to do next." His voice became level, clinical, almost detached.

"Any ideas?"

"Yeah. A couple." There was hissing menace in his words.

Callie was almost frightened by the detached look in his eyes. She had seen pictures of shark's eyes. They were dead looking, completely devoid of any emotion, much like Blake's were now.

Rational thought replaced the cold predatory look. "But we are supposed to be getting me off a murder charge, not adding another."

Callie discovered she had been holding her breath.
CHAPTER 40

Ken felt like a character out of some bad detective movie. Driving around aimlessly for an hour, he had checked his rear view mirror so many times that he was more confident about where he had been than where he was going.

Twice, he had abruptly swung into convenience markets and gone inside. Standing in the candy aisle in one store and the automotive aisle in another he surreptitiously peered between the inevitable posters advertising unappealing food and sugary frozen drinks. He was searching for anyone who showed undue interest in his movements. The only result of his amateur shenanigans was a bag full of candy and a quart of motor oil he didn't really need.

When he was finally certain that he was not being followed, Ken wheeled into a self service gas station. He was finding out just how few pay phones were left in this World where cell phones proliferated. Ken had memorized the number to Blake's burn phone. He carefully positioned his body in front of the keypad, just in case he had missed something, and dialed the number.

Blake answered on the third ring. "Kenny?" His voice sounded more relaxed somehow.

_Must be the mountain air or all those chores have worn him down to mellow._ Ken thought.

"Hey buddy."

"Wha'cha got?" came Blake's reply.

"Well, everything's checking out so far. It looks like your researcher really did her homework. A source I know in the International District confirms that Hong Sheng is apparently a big fish in a local crime family. He also runs a small grocery that sells traditional herbs and remedies."

"Any connection to crime lords elsewhere?" There was tenuousness to the question that caused Ken to pause momentarily.

"Nothing solid. Yet. Of course there are always rumors. The locals in the community always think that there is some connection to the old country and guys like Hong never disabuse them of those thoughts. Makes it easier to squeeze them for protection or collect gambling debts if they think you have the power of a major crime family behind you. You want me to dig around a little?"

Blake was ready for the question. He didn't want to overheat Ken's reporter's instincts so he had thought about how to answer ahead of time. "No. I don't want you to dig around a little. I'm worried about the leak at your paper. It's pretty clear that Sampson is our best suspect. He killed Trish because she could destroy his career. He framed me because he thinks my family ruined his. Pretty much your typical psychopathic politician backed into a corner."

He waited and when Ken made no response he continued. "Let's be clear here. Sampson has hired some really nasty customers as his bully boys. They tried to kill or abduct Callie twice. We've had word that they are watching her business and her home. I think Sampson's worried that she's with me and that she's going to spill the beans about him. He's just paranoid enough to believe that I'm involved in the blackmail too. "

"So why don't you want me poking around about any international connection for Hong? That all seems pretty buried in the past."

"I know but, if it isn't then I don't want you or Carole in the line of fire." Blake's grim tone reflected his frank concern.

"Carole? Why would they go after Carole? Hell, I'm the pain in the ass reporter."

"Yeah, but she's your wife and that makes her useful as a pawn to threaten you with." Blake wasn't about to let go of it.

Something nagged at the corner's of Ken's mind. "You want to know if there's a connection to that crowd in Shanghai, don't you?"

"I suppose it's possible but I don't want you trying to chase it to ground. Callie knows someone who can run it to ground and not get caught. Someone with no possibility of being compromised who also doesn't have to deal with your ethical questions."

"Okay, I can see that but, what if this anonymous source turns up something that is really juicy? Am I going to get it?" Ken wasn't sure he wanted to trust anyone else to do his digging for him.

"If there's anything useful I promise you'll get it." Blake didn't believe that there would be a connection between a neighborhood thug and a powerful crime organization on the Asian mainland.

But, whether there was or not, he didn't want Ken digging around in person and putting himself and his family at risk. Callie had assured him that Liz could do all the research from behind multiple layers of firewalls, dummy servers, and other things that made no sense to him. She made it sound like the chances of someone finding out who Liz actually was were almost insignificant.

Blake wanted to get Ken's bloodhound nose for news off this spoor. "Besides, it really doesn't matter does it? I mean, Sampson's up to his waist in sewage here. What does it matter if he's up to his armpits? Either way, when you break this story, he's through. He couldn't get elected dog catcher or street sweeper after this."

Ken reflected on that. "True." he said slowly. "But it would be icing on the cake if he was more directly tied to international organized crime. Makes for a more sensational story. And that enhances my chances of winning a Pulitzer."

"We really need to do something about your lack of ambition, you know that don't you?"

Ken chuckled at the jibe. "Yeah. It's always been a failing of mine. No ambition."

Ken's voice changed. It became more sincere. "You're really worried about this, aren't you?"

Blake's stony silence spoke volumes to him. "Okay, if you're really that worried, I'll leave off looking for an international connection."

"Thanks. Trust me, it's for the best." Blake was relieved beyond words at Ken's promise to drop the inquiries into any connection between Sampson, Hong, and a mainland crime syndicate.

Ken could hear his friend relax. "Well, now that we've settled that, where do we go from here? What's the plan?"

Blake's voice came like a wind off the Gulf of Alaska, clear and bitterly cold. "I want to rub the bastard's nose in it. Then we take him down."

"And by we you mean .......?" Ken hoped he didn't sound too expectant.

"Callie, me, and if you want to tag along, you." The bitterness had receded but the coldness remained in his words.

"Hey, it never hurts to be on the scene of a breaking story. And for you, it never hurts to have an outside witness. Like the press or not, the cops can't say we aren't observant. Maybe a bit biased at times but still, observant."

"Fine." came Blake's terse reply. After a brief pause, he said, "Okay, Callie and I are going to finalize our strategy and get one or two little things straightened out and then we'll brief you on the plan. Fair enough?

Ken grunted his agreement. He had become hungry enough that he had attacked one of the candy bars from the convenience mart.

Blake could hear the moist sounds of nougat being consumed and he grinned. Ken had always had a seemingly bottomless appetite, even in school. He never exercised and yet he never gained weight. 'The man has the metabolism of a hummingbird.' someone once said.

"Alright then." Blake said, stifling a laugh. "Let's talk again tomorrow. Same time minus three."

"Mffrite." Ken said around a new bite of nougat and nuts.

Blake's eyes were like deep lakes on a windy day. Mirth sparkled in them for a moment then they darkened with concern.

"I just hope that he stays clear of the Hong/ Shanghai question. He's a great reporter but at times he can be a bit blind and reckless."

Callie cuddled next to Blake's hard, muscular arm, hugging it reassuringly. "He knows that someone was aware enough to connect him with you. He knows that the watchers are dangerous." She paused momentarily to squeeze his arm a bit tighter.

Relaxing her grip she said, "And he's smart enough to know these people have no qualms about hurting women. He'll steer clear because of his wife."

She patted his arm as she withdrew from it. Her hand trailed warm sensation from his upper arm to his hand where she lingered momentarily before releasing him reluctantly.

Blake had never known anyone who affected him so profoundly before. Callie's mere presence was enough to reinvigorate him, reassure him, and innervate his resolve. She completed him. He knew she was his destiny.

Rousing from his reverie, he heard her ask, "So now we contact Liz and Barry, right?"

The sparkle returned to his eyes. A bit of malicious mischief spiced them. "Almost right. We call Liz. Not Barry."

Callie looked at him with curiosity. "What's the problem with Barry?" she asked defensively.

"Nothing." he said abruptly. "Don't know the guy. But I was thinking. He said that the watchers were outside your business right?"

Callie nodded.

"And he's told us, well indirectly he's told us, that Will has been around more than once looking for you. Right?"

Again she nodded. Understanding flared in her emerald green eyes.

"So, it's a reasonable inference that he may be compromised." she completed his thought.

"Right." Blake smiled warmly. She was so bright, so vibrant, so – well – perfect for him.

"So we communicate with him through Liz." she continued.

"Exactly." Blake nodded emphatically in agreement.

Liz had begun to question whether she had wasted Blake's money buying a third burn phone. She charged it. She carried it in the other front pocket of her jeans. She checked it to make sure it was on. And yet, it never rang. She even questioned whether she had programmed the number correctly into Blake and Callie's phones. Sure, she might have done it wrong on one of their phones.

_Yeah! Right. Like I'd make that kind of rookie mistake._ she thought.

But there was no way, no way she'd do it wrong on both of them. The simple fact was, they didn't need her.

For all these reasons as well as a liberal dash of growing anxiety for Callie's welfare, Liz jumped when the burn phone vibrated lustily in her pocket. Her hand flew to it, almost upsetting the steaming cup of coffee on her desktop.

She glanced at the caller ID. No name. But she recognized the number nevertheless. "Callie?" she gasped. Her excitement was palpable, even from Callie's phone.

"Hey Liz. How's tricks?" the casual tone of Callie's voice contrasted against Liz's extreme anxiety. She felt irritation flare within her only to have it drowned by relief.

"I was beginning to think you didn't care anymore." she teased.

"You know you're the only girl for me." came Callie's stock reply. Over the years they had derived immense impish glee from such exchanges in front of other people. The look of shock they engendered was priceless. Once a woman had dropped ice cream off her spoon because her head shot around so quickly to look at them."

" 'S up?" asked Liz.

"Feel like goin' fishin' again?" asked Callie.

"You know me. I love fishin', "came her delighted reply.

"Okay. Here's what we want to know." Callie's use of the plural pronoun was not lost on Liz.

_She's falling for this guy._ she thought. _Correction, she's fallen for this guy._

"We need you to do a bit of deep cover digging on a guy named Hong Shen." Callie spelled the name carefully.

"Uh huh." Liz replied. "And just what am I looking for?" She knew she was going to love the answer. Callie's voice always had a touch of glee in it when she was going to really challenge Liz's hacking abilities.

"This one is the grand prize. He's supposed to be a small time thug in the International District but we want you to use your super-sleuth powers to find out if there is any connection between him and this crime organization on the Asian mainland."

Callie could hear the excited intake of breath from Liz as she began spelling the syndicate's name.

"You're probably going to have to get into either Interpol files or the cops' files in Asia in order to make any connection. Seattle cops mostly think that he's a small time operator."

"That's going to be fun." Liz could hardly sit still she was so excited. Interpol and especially Asian government files. Some of those guys over there were the best hackers in the World. And they should be. Their government paid them to learn in the States and then subsidized their activities as long as they remained discrete. Of course, if they got caught poking around is someone's sensitive files, it was curtains for them, literally. Liz literally quivered with anticipation for the chance to match her wits and skill against them.

"Before you get lost in cyberland, I need you to do something far more prosaic." Callie said.

"I don't do windows or feed cats." Liz shot back as she touched down from the heady heights of her excitement.

"I don't have a cat." Callie replied, sniggering at Liz's crestfallen complaint.

"Yes but you do have windows, and they need cleaning. Correction, they've needed cleaning for the past five years."

Liz was making notes for ideas about how to begin digging into the police files she needed.

"Well, thankfully this task doesn't involve any windows. Okay maybe one window. I need you to get in touch with Barry and find out if those guys are still watching the business."

"Alright, I can handle going to a service window. Is there free coffee in it for me?"

Callie struggled not to choke on her saliva as she suppressed a laugh. Leave _it to Liz to have the chutzpah to ask for free coffee._

"Yes, tell Barry I said you're good for one coffee. But a twelve ounce. And no free extra flavoring."

"I won't do it for less than a sixteen ounce and I will not have my flavoring rights fettered." Mock anger came through the phone as Liz pouted like a teenager.

"Alright. Alright. Just don't fall on the floor and kick your feet again. You know how that irritates the people downstairs."

Liz burst into laughter. Wiping the tears from her eyes she slowly managed to choke out the words, "What do you want me to tell him?"

Callie struggled for composure. Blake was looking at her with incredulity. For a moment she worried that he thought she had slipped out of reality.

She winked at him and mouthed the words, 'It's okay.' before answering Liz.

"Tell him that, if the watchers are still there, he should call the cops. Have him give them some story like how he's worried about their being there. I don't know. Maybe he thinks that they're casing the bank down the street or something. Make it lurid but believable." She paused as Blake stage whispered more instructions to her.

Callie held up the index finger of her free hand and then, curling it around an invisible pen, she mimed someone writing. Blake nodded his understanding.

As Liz finished repeating the instructions in that halting, exaggeratedly slow voice people use when they are writing something Callie said, "Also, it's important that he tells them that they have been there for a few days."

Blake was miming now as well. He was hopping from one place to another. Each time he landed, he would make an exaggerated settling gesture. Callie gaped at him in utter confusion. She stopped talking so abruptly that Liz asked if she was still there.

"Huh? Yeah. I'm still here. Hang on a minute; I think there's something wrong with Blake." Callie muted the phone.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, suppressing her laughter.

"I always sucked at charades." He replied with obvious chagrin.

"I was trying to indicate that they were always in the area but in different places and at different times. It sounds a whole lot more suspicious." His cheeks colored to his hairline with embarrassment.

"AAAAh." she said struggling for control. "You know, it's probably good you explained that. I was going to guess it was a movie title like 'Night of the Anxious Bunny."

Her self control evaporated along with his. They dissolved into fits of laughter. In the process, Callie un-muted the phone. Liz could hear peals of giggling laughter. They were so overwhelmingly genuine that she could not help but join in, despite not knowing what the laughter was about.

Finally, when everyone had regained a modicum of composure, Liz said, "You need to be kidnapped by murderers more often. I haven't heard you laugh like that in years. And especially not after you started dating that stuffed shirt."

Callie's eyes hardened. Her voice was low but forcefully clear. "The stuffed shirt is no more. I dumped him before getting kidnapped by King Kong of the mountains."

Blake mimed beating his chest like a movie gorilla. Callie began to snigger again.

Wiping tears from her eyes she gasped for breath. "But seriously now. Blake says that Barry should mention that the car has been there in the area but in different places and at different times of day. That should help the cops get a picture of latent miscreants looking to do mayhem."

"And I'll have him use exactly those words too." Liz sniggered into the phone. "Okay, nefarious evildoers lurking in the area, casing the bank with the intent to do harm. Got it. Anything else?"

Callie looked at Blake and asked, "Anything else?"

He shook his head no.

"Nope, that's it. Call me or Blake if the cops don't do anything. Otherwise, we'll assume that they at least ran them off. Oh, wait. There is one more thing. Tell Barry to be careful. Those guys' friends tried to run me off the road once. And another pair of them tried to kidnap me for real as well as trying to kill Blake. They really are evildoers. No joke."

"My God Callie, are you serious? Who are these guys? Are you alright?" Liz's concern was palpable.

Callie's face suffused with a confident, pleased glow. "As long as I'm with Blake, I'm perfectly safe from anyone."

She felt the truth of the statement in the very core of her. He was her knight in shining armor. The fairytale prince come to life.

Liz paused and then said, "I don't know what you're smoking wherever you are but be sure to bring some back with you."

Callie chuckled and then simply said, "No herbals. I'm just high on life right now." as she disconnected.

Liz carefully typed and printed out all Callie's instructions. She put them inside the notebook she kept inside her large bag and headed off to the coffee shack. As she strolled through the green median park she looked around her as if drinking in the riot of color that bloomed along the edges.

She even went over to some of the densely planted flower beds and admired the blooms up close. As she turned away from one particular bed, she allowed her gaze to stray to the dark grey sedan parked just down the road from Callie's place. She did a pirouette and mock danced down the median toward the coffee stand.

The watcher on the passenger's side of the car noticed her antics. "Here comes the nutsy one again." he said in a bored voice.

His partner looked across the interior to see Liz skip up to the window. "Geez, she's so tightly wound already. What the hell does she need with coffee? Would probably do better on tranqs."

The passenger side watcher shook his head in disgust. They had been sitting on the target's business for days and all they had seen was a cross section of Hickus Americanus. He was convinced that everyone in Bellington was one form of rube or another. None of them had any sand. That was obvious.

"You know we're just pissing in the wind here, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, I know, but the money's good and, especially if neither of them turn up, the risks are zip."

"You're not gettin' soft on me are you?" His wraparound sun glasses hid his suspiciously narrowed eyes.

"Hell no." replied his companion, "I really enjoy the hunt and especially the kill. It's just that, sometimes, I really like to get paid for sittin' on my ass. Makes me feel that I'm not getting' screwed all the time. You know, takin' all the risks for some rich asshole without the sand to do his own work."

"Yeah, I get it. But there's something special about wet ops, isn't there?"

"Damned straight." replied the driver's side watcher as they went back to scanning the area for any sign of Callie or Blake.

Liz's antics had been agreed upon with Barry when this all began. If she looked ditzy, maybe the watchers would not take an interest in her. She ordered her coffee and, despite her agreement with Callie, paid for it.

Business was reasonably slow at this time of day so she stood at the window, her head turned toward the inside of the coffee stand, apparently idly flirting with Barry. He feigned a polite but bored response to her.

Inside he was in turmoil. Constantly seeing Liz to discuss things had only deepened his crush on her. After the night out at Steve's concert, he knew he had it bad and these regular meetings only made it worse. Nevertheless, he played his role with consummate grace and conviction.

Liz twirled to a table in the sun. Her coffee sloshed against the plastic lid spewing tiny droplets of caramel colored liquid. She sat down with a dramatic plop and took a wire bound notebook out of her capacious purse.

She began to 'write' studiously. Her pen appeared to fly over the paper and then, abruptly she would stop and stare at the sky as if looking for inspiration in its cerulean canopy. Then, as suddenly, she would resume her furious writing.

She took a long pull on her coffee cup and appeared to read what she had just written. She snatched it up out of the notebook and skipped over to the window where Barry leaned, affecting boredom.

Liz read the words to Barry and he dropped his head and shook it in apparent disgust. Liz became angry, crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it at him, carefully missing him so the wad flew inside the coffee shack. She stormed over to her table, stuffed the notebook into her bag and threw her coffee into the garbage bin with a disgusted flair.

As she left, Barry slowly turned back inside, wiping the counter absentmindedly. He picked up the paper ball and took it to the corner of the shack that the watchers could not see. He smoothed out the paper and began to read her neatly typed instructions from Callie.

"Bellington Police Department, do you have an emergency?" the crisp dispassionate voice of the dispatcher crackled in Barry's ear.

"Hi, uh, yeah. I'm not sure if this is an emergency or not." he affected a nervous and uncertain demeanor.

"Sir? Sir, your cell phone's number is blocked. If we get disconnected, what is your number?" Barry gave her a number for a burn phone a friend of his had a couple of years back. His friend was off somewhere in Indian studying yoga so there was little chance of it coming back on Barry or him for that matter.

"Thank you. Is anyone sick or hurt where you are?"

"No." he replied.

"Is anyone threatening to hurt someone?" the dispatcher asked, going down the list of possible emergencies.

"No." Barry repeated. He tried to sound nervous. It wasn't all that difficult. If he got caught doing this he could be in some serious trouble.

"Okay, so no one is sick, hurt, or in danger of being hurt. Is there a fire or some other danger?" a faint twinge of exasperation was creeping into the dispatcher's voice. He could tell he had her attention so he decided to 'volunteer' his information from the script Liz had provided.

"No there's no fire and no one is hurt but there are these scary guys in a car."

The dispatcher's attention refocused on Barry's words. "What makes them scary, sir?" she asked.

"They just sit there, watching. Day after day. Watching."

"Sir, where are they sitting and watching?" Barry could hear the click of the console keys as the dispatcher began typing in notes on his call.

"Just down the street from the Northwest Bank building." The typing became more earnest.

Before the dispatcher could ask another question Barry volunteered, "I seen 'em all the time when I go to get my coffee. They're never in the exact same spot. And they are there at all different times."

"How come you see them at different times?" the dispatcher asked suspiciously. The pounding on the keys of the console slowed.

Barry was ready for her. "I'm a grad student doing field work and I drink a lot of coffee while I'm doing my research."

"I see." said the dispatcher. The typing resumed it's more fevered pitch as she accepted his explanation.

"And how long have you noticed these men in the car?"

"For at least the last three days." Barry replied. He had thought about it and any more time would seem to make his suspicions less credible. Any less time would not give him enough data to build a suspicion.

"Okay sir, can you describe the car to me?" There was a pause while she waited to see how much information he was able to give her.

Barry asked for a minute and rustled the paper as if taking out a note. "Here it is." he said before listing off the make, model, color, and license plate number.

Impressed, the dispatcher hopefully asked for a description of the men. Barry hemmed and hawed for a moment and then, sheepishly said, "I can't tell you about them. They usually have the windows up and those are tinted real dark."

"You say the windows are usually up? In this heat?" she asked incredulously.

"Yeah, weird, huh?" asked Barry. Then he volunteered, "Maybe they're from some desert place and this seems cool to them.

"Yeah. Maybe." the dispatcher's suspicions turned to terrorist suspects. Being less than one hundred miles from the Canadian border and right on the coast, Bellington was a likely spot for anyone wanting to attack one of the military bases that dotted western Washington or to disrupt one of the major Northwest ports.

"Thank you sir. You've been most helpful. Are you in the area now so our officers can contact you?" she asked crisply.

"No, I'm up near Blaine doing some follow up on one of our monitors."

"Okay, but we can reach you on this number if we need to, right?" she asked with a trace of anxiety in her voice. Anonymous calls were alright but live witnesses who could testify were better.

"Oh sure. I'm in the area until the end of the Summer. At least." Barry put every ounce of sincerity he could muster into that last sentence.

"Fine. Well, good luck with your research. And thank you again. Thank you very much. It's concerned citizens like yourself that make our job easier."

Barry tried to sound embarrassed. With an "aw, shucks" tone he said, "It's my pleasure ma'am. Glad to do my part." and he disconnected.
CHAPTER 41

Officer Tim Harelson had been on the Bellington Police Department for five years. It was an alright job and sometimes, 'real' crime occurred. But, for the most part, despite its size, Bellington required 'small town' policing. Harelson dreamed of getting on with Seattle PD. He saw himself as a natural for SWAT or maybe Intelligence. His military police training and stint in Iraq made him a natural, in _his_ mind at least.

Unfortunately for Harelson, the personnel geeks at Seattle PD didn't agree with his assessment of his abilities. He had been turned down for the last two academies. He was seriously weighing whether he should apply again or maybe reenlist in the Army. The big negative factor with reenlistment was that, with his experience in Iraq, he was almost certain to get deployed to Afghanistan.

Convoy security was anything but boring but he wasn't sure that he wanted back in the pressure cooker of combat again. He'd jump at reenlisting if he could wangle getting stationed somewhere quiet but still interesting. Harelson finished out his first enlistment with the military police detachment at a post in Germany. It was cake duty. Just enough excitement to make the job challenging but close enough to town to let him really enjoy his off duty time.

He snorted aloud as he thought, _Yeah, like that's gonna happen. More likely it'll be sign here and pack your bags for Central Asia._

Harelson was aimlessly driving around his beat when the dispatcher interrupted his reverie.

"Seven Adam Fourteen. Contact Sgt. Foote on Tac one."

Harelson snatched the microphone from its cradle and replied, "Seven Adam Fourteen. Roger."

He switched over to Tactical Frequency One. "Seven Adam Fourteen to One Sierra Fourteen on Tac one." he said with military precision.

Being instructed to contact a sergeant on a tactical frequency could mean something exciting. His pulse quickened as he waited for Sgt. Foote to respond.

"Tim." came Foote's voice over the radio.

Harelson bristled. Sgt. Foote was a leftover from an earlier time. He had the annoying habit of calling everyone by their first name. Not only patrol officers but lieutenants, captains and even the deputy chief. Somehow, he got away with it but it irritated Harelson beyond words.

"Hey sarge." he said struggling to keep his contempt suppressed. "What's up?"

"You did some time with the MPs in Iraq, right?" Foote knew the answer to his question perfectly well.

"Yeah. Why?" Harelson's curiosity was piqued. Why would Foote ask about that?

"Ever deal with any car bombing suspects before they detonated?"

"One or two." This was looking better and better.

"Good. Meet me and Baker at the corner of fifth and Waller. Foote out." The tactical frequency went dead.

Harelson sat up a little straighter. He pushed the car just over the speed limit as he made his way to the rendezvous point. Maybe he didn't need Seattle PD or the Army he thought as his pulse quickened. Maybe there was some real action here in Bellington after all.

Walter Foote was a big man. Not only in girth, but in height. He just exceeded six foot five inches. His bifocal glasses always drooped down his long straight nose, just like the twists of his handlebar mustache did. They never quite stayed up, despite copious waxing. Pomade slicked his thinning salt and pepper hair back, and the rosy tip of his nose spoke of many nights of hard drinking 'debriefings'. Although his outward appearance belied it, Walter Foote was a good, tough cop.

"Tim. Good to see you. We need your expertise on this one." Foote outlined the information about the watchers for Harelson and Baker.

When he had finished, he looked directly at Harelson and asked, "Well, waddya think? How should we handle this?"

Harelson reveled in his moment of glory. _Yes sir, this is going to be a career making day._ he thought.

"Huh." he said. Not an auspicious beginning but he was thinking. Remembering. Evaluating. "I can't see 'em being bombers. I mean, bombers do their recon on foot and then drive in for the kill. More likely bank robbers like the caller said."

Sgt. Foote looked at him through eyes that were considerably less rheumy than usual and nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense." he said tersely.

Officer Baker nodded in agreement.

"Everybody wearing his vest today?" Foote asked. He could see the outline of body armor beneath each officer's shirt but it never hurt to remind them.

Harelson and Baker both unconsciously adjusted their vests. "Yep." They replied in unison.

"Good. Safety first." Foote spewed forth one of his famous axioms. "A dead cop is no good to anyone."

He paused for a moment, thinking. He walked just out of earshot and spoke into his portable radio. Then he made a call on his cell phone. There was a lot of head nodding, shaking, and eye rolling before he returned to the two patrol officers.

"Okay boyos, here's what we're gonna do." Sgt. Foote proceeded to outline a plan that appeared to be part sitcom and part pure genius.

Harelson and Baker stared at him in wonderment. Inside that too casual, too old exterior was the devious brain of a man who had mastered his profession.

The watchers heard it before they saw it. The large city dump truck rumbled up from behind them. The gears ground as the inexperienced driver attempted to downshift. The now rusty green and white behemoth shuddered to a stop blocking the roadway in front of them.

They had rolled the windows down for a bit to let out some of the accumulated heat from inside. After it dissipated, they would turn on the car and run the air conditioner to cool off the interior again. This constant venting, cooling and venting was about all that relieved the boredom of their assignment.

"What the f------?" the first watcher cut off his question as both doors of the dump truck popped open and orange construction helmeted workers piled out. Their overalls were stained with tar and grease. The men were obviously engaged in a heated discussion, snatches of which floated back to the watchers' car.

"Jerk ..... no overtime ...... now drains ........ why when it's summer?"

Both watchers shook their head, again failing to understand how anyone could lead a meaningless life of daily work at menial tasks.

Their view of the coffee shack was unimpeded so the watcher behind the steering wheel decided to stay put. Obviously, the city workers were checking the street drains for debris. Since it had not rained for days, there wasn't going to be any debris blocking the storm grate in the middle of the road. The truck would move in a minute or two. There wasn't any reason to call attention to themselves by moving and then resuming their position.

The city workers disappeared in front of the dump truck. At the same time, a liveried police car pulled up on the opposite side of the street. Both watchers shifted their attention to the potential threat. The driver reached for the ignition switch but stopped short of grabbing it. Turning the car over might attract the attention of the cop. Not really desirable under the circumstances.

A portly sergeant extracted himself from the car with difficulty and fumbled with his radio and nightstick. Both watchers relaxed a fraction.

"Keystone Kop." muttered the passenger side watcher. "What a goof. Who the hell carries a nightstick these days?"

"Probably can't figure out how to use a collapsible baton." the driver snorted derisively.

"Looks like he's going over to give the dump truck pukes a bollocking for blocking the street." Both watchers stared at the overweight sergeant as he adjusted his equipment belt and tried to suck in his obvious beer belly.

The passenger side watcher, with extreme sarcasm said, "To Serve and Protect."

"Don't talk that way about my sergeant, and _don't_ move." The cold menace in the voice caused the watcher to hold his breath involuntarily. Cold metal touched his ear as both watchers heard the sound of automatic pistol hammers being cocked back. Recognition flashed through them as they realized they had lost the edge. The hunters had become the hunted.

Harelson shouted across the car, "Got'em covered Baker?"

"Roger that." Arnie Baker replied crisply. Harelson smiled to himself. Arnie always reverted to 'Navy speak' when things got exciting.

Harelson keyed the microphone for the portable radio that was clipped to his epaulette. "Got'em sarge."

From in front of the dump truck, the sergeant who had been the object of the watchers' contempt and both the city workers emerged with guns drawn. The sergeant moved with a grace and precision that bespoke years of training and experience.

The passenger's side watcher groaned as he chastised himself and his partner for being fooled by a bit of clever acting.

One of the city workers covered each of the watchers. Harelson holstered his pistol and opened the passenger's side door.

"Out you come sunshine." he said. "And be sure to keep your hands empty and in plain view. It'd be a shame to deprive your lawyer of his fee 'cause we had to shoot your ass."

As Harelson cuffed his suspect he thought, _Yes sir. Turned out to be a really good day._
CHAPTER 42

"They did?" Callie's brows arched in surprise. It was all she could do to not pull the phone from her ear and stare at it incredulously.

She listened to the next statement before asking. "Really?"

Blake was like a live wire waiting for the call from Liz to end. He paced, bounced, and huffed his way around the clearing outside the cabin door. Listening to Callie's part of the conversation he knew that everything had gone well, in fact, probably better than they had hoped. But he hated being out of the direct line of communication.

"Uh-huh.... Okay.... Uh-huh, I'll let him know. .... Right. .... Okay, we'll talk to you soon. ... Love to Barry. ... Uh-huh. ... 'k. Bye."

The shorthand of an ending phone call between friends was maddening. Blake was so keyed up with anticipation and curiosity that he was sure he could split a cord of wood in record time right now.

Callie no sooner got out the word 'bye' before Blake was looming in front of her. "Well?"

Pent up energy radiated from him. "I'm guessing that it went well but, did the cops get everyone? Was there any hitch? Are they wise to who tipped them off?" The questions cascaded from him in rapid fire succession.

Callie's eyes sparkled mischievously. "You're really quite excitable, aren't you?" Somehow, she couldn't resist the urge to tease him just a bit more.

"I thought I proved that to your, ummm.... shall we say .... satisfaction, repeatedly recently."

Callie felt warmth suffuse her cheeks. Her gaze glazed over with the memory of their most recent lovemaking.

'Yes, yes you did." Her voice took on a dreamy quality as she remembered that extremely pleasant and satisfying experience.

"Alright then. Stop teasing and tell me what happened." Blake's tone was light but insistent. It was clear that he would stand for no further delay.

"Everything went spectacularly. Barry floated some story about being a grad student doing field work this summer. They never pinned him down to anything. Liz says that the cops took both guys away in cuffs. She said it looked like some kinda SWAT raid. The cops used a city dump truck and everything."

"Annnnnnnnd?" Blake's hand rotated in a 'go on' gesture. Urgency drove the speed of its rotation.

"Annnnnnd," Callie's eyes glimmered impishly once more before she continued, "Barry and Liz have been scoping out the area since then. No sign of any new watchers either yesterday after the cops nabbed them or today."

The relief was palpable in his voice. "Looks like we're in the clear then." He sat down next to Callie on the bench by the door.

"So, next we confront Will, right?" Her voice betrayed a nervousness born of fear. Fear of Will's ruthlessness certainly, but more than that, her fear for Blake's safety.

It was hard for Callie to believe that someone she knew was capable of murder. She couldn't imagine how anyone could hurt another person just to hide a misdeed; let alone kill them. It was so stupid.

Will had been a kid when he got involved in the bear gall trading scheme. It was a mistake. But it wasn't worth another person's life.

Callie had done her fair share of stupid things when she was younger too. But Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac had always raised her to own up to her misdeeds, make amends, and move forward.

She knew how desperately Will wanted to be looked up to. His insecurity drove his ambition and need for control. But she never dreamed that he would resort to killing in order to satisfy those needs.

What's more, not only had he killed Trish, but he had framed an innocent man, a man with whom she was falling ever deeper in love.

Will had taken her sister from her, now he wanted to deprive her of the man she loved, all for the sake of his selfish pride. Her apprehension transformed into a resolve to see him punished, not for his earlier mistakes but for the terrible crimes he committed to cover them up.

Sensing her inner turmoil, Blake reached around her shoulder and gently embraced her. "It's going to be okay Callie." His warmth and strength reassured her and smoothed the sharp edges of her anxiety.

"I know. It's just so unbelievable that's all." She slowly melted against his broad, muscular shoulder, snuggling into it.

Callie's emotions warred within her. Outrage demanded that Will be exposed and punished. Anxiety for Blake's safety urged caution. She couldn't seem to reconcile the conflict raging inside her mind.

She remained there silently drinking in strength and reassurance from him. After several moments she sat up. Blake could see the dew of tears in the corners of her eyes. She had been crying so softly that he hadn't noticed it.

He carefully wiped away the tears with his thumb. It was a soft, caressing gesture that spoke volumes about his capacity for tenderness and empathy.

Gazing into his eyes, Callie knew what had to be done. Blake was an honest man. A just man. He had to do the right thing, and now, she did too. Putting on a less than convincing 'bold face' she looked up at him. "So" the word quavered with a suppressed sob. "How do we do this?"

Blake's lips curved upward reassuringly as he met her gaze. Then the warmth on his face chilled as the ruthless, logical, planning, executive part of his mind took control. "Sampson has a big event planned for Friday. That's two days off, so where's he likely to be tomorrow?"

Callie's eyes shifted up and to her left as she tried to remember Will's routine. "If he follows pattern, he should be at his home office polishing his speech. He always runs through it several times, recording it each time so he can play it back and tweak the text."

Her eyes lowered slightly. "I asked if I could be there once but he wouldn't hear of it. Will doesn't like to have anyone there when he practices. I think he's uncomfortable letting anyone know how rehearsed his 'spontaneous' speeches are."

Blake remembered hearing that Sampson never had a prepared speech or teleprompter when he addressed a crowd. Now he knew why. He was so well rehearsed that he probably could recite the speech in his sleep.

He felt a twinge of jealousy at Callie knowing Will's habits. It spoke of an intimacy he didn't want to acknowledge. Blake didn't like it that she had dated him, even casually, at one time. Obviously, Sampson thought it was more than casual since he had proposed to her.

The thought of another man holding her tenderly, kissing her; caused him to rage inside. Blake shoved back against the angry beast of his jealousy. He had to stay focused; stay in control. For now.

"So no one is there?" he asked. "Not even his head handler, what's his name ..." Blake's eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. "Alexander, Micah Alexander?"

"Nope. Not even him. At least, I don't think so. Will was always very adamant. Micah certainly has a lot of control over him and especially over the campaign. But I've never known Will to let _anyone_ listen to the speech before he was ready. I can't see that he would change that. Even though he thinks Micah Alexander is the greatest campaign manager on the planet."

Blake made a mental check mark and pressed on. "Okay, so he doesn't let anyone listen but is he willing to interrupt his rehearsal for something important?"

"If it was really important, yeah, I think he would. Why, what do you have in mind?" She sensed that Blake had something involving her planned for his entrée into Will's presence.

Blake looked away, speaking to a point over her shoulder. He knew she wasn't going to like his plan. He didn't particularly like it either. He hated taking even the slightest risk with Callie's safety but he couldn't see any other way.

"Well..." he trailed off. "I remember that you said he was pressuring you to marry him and that he had this 'big announcement' he was planning to make at Friday's rally."

He paused, fearing an explosion of protest from her. Callie just glared at him icily.

"So I was thinking, why not have you play the prodigal fiancée appearing just in the nick of time?"

The look Callie gave him could have swept a blizzard across five States. "You. Want me. To go to Will's house and pretend. To accept his _demand_ that I marry him for the good of his campaign?"

The staccato tempo of the sentence, chopped into snippets of anger stung his ears.

Blake stood his ground in the face of her rage. He had known she would not take the suggestion well. But his motives for making it were sound.

"No, I want you to _pretend_ to be there for that reason. You only have to keep it up long enough for us to blitz our way inside." He could see her anger abate a bit. "What we need is a reason for Sampson to open the door. You're the best reason I can think of."

The frost was still in her voice. "Okay, he opens the door. Then what?"

"Well, that's where Ken and I come in. Literally."

"Isn't that against the law? Blake could tell that she was _not_ warming to his idea but he could not think of any other way to get close enough to Will to confront him.

"Technically, I suppose it is. But, it's a big step down from being a murder suspect. And, once we confront Sampson, he's going to have a lot more to worry about than Ken and me paying him an uninvited visit."

Callie's icy stare suddenly gave way to clouds of doubt and worry. "But, what if he gets violent? He's already killed once. What's to stop him from killing again to protect his secret? He has a _gun_ ; we _know_ he has a gun. I couldn't bear the thought of you getting hurt."

_Or living without you_ she added to herself as she confronted her darkest fear, a World without Blake in it.

Blake was touched by her concern for him. She really did care for him. He had never known a woman with such spirit, determination, and inner strength. She was unlike the shallow, self serving women he had known before. She loved him just because he was himself. Position, advantage, wealth, influence; these things meant nothing to her.

She had willingly joined forces with him. They were this close to proving his innocence because of her. He loved her fiercely.

He took her hand reassuringly. "We'll be alright. Ken is a fourth degree black belt in taekwondo and I play rugby. Between us, we can pretty much handle Sampson."

Callie still looked dubious.

Blake lightly took her chin in his hand and tilted her head to meet his steady gaze. He poured all the sincerity he felt and more confidence than he actually had into his next words. "Hey. He's not going to answer the door with a gun. And he's going to be so off balance when he sees it's you that we're going to be able to waltz in before he realizes what we're doing."

"And after that?" the clouds of worry were darkening. "What if he sends people after you? Or Ken?"

A hint of doubt flitted across Blake's face. "I don't know."

He pondered her point. He had always imagined Sampson caving in to the overwhelming evidence they were going to put before him. He saw Will as being essentially a bully. That meant he was also a coward. Sure, he had killed Trish but she was alone and probably off her guard.

But Callie could have a point. After all, she did know him. She might have insights, even unconscious insights into his character that needed to be considered. Plus, there were the watchers.

It was reasonable to presume that Will had arranged for them to find Callie. That meant he wasn't above using contract muscle to do his more dangerous dirty work. While he wasn't necessarily concerned for himself, he didn't have the right to put Ken and his family at risk.

Callie studied the look of concentration on Blake's face. She could see that he was rearranging the building blocks of his scheme. She marveled that any man other than her Uncle Mac would listen to a woman so carefully and give full weight to her input.

Most of the men she had known, professionally and those few she had dated tended to dismiss her input and insights. Blake wasn't like that. He respected her. She wondered if he had any idea of just how sexy that was.

"Okay, you have a good point. We do need some sort of insurance policy. Got any ideas?"

As it happened, she did have one. It was as old and as corny as it could be but, the tried and true often was.

"What about having Ken write out the story tonight? He could leave it in the proverbial sealed envelope with instructions about what to do with it. I know it sounds so 'B movie' but I don't think Will could afford to bet it wasn't true."

Blake's face reflected his admiration. "It's simple. It's direct. And it should do the trick."

He took out his burn phone and started to dial. Callie grabbed his hand. "Wait. What are you doing?"

"Calling Ken, of course."

"Let's not get sloppy this close to the end." Her words were not a suggestion. They were a command.

Blake's face revealed his lack of understanding. "It's not just the outgoing calls we need to worry about. We also need to be careful about incoming ones. What if whoever hired the watchers has also figured out that Ken is a conduit to you? His work phone could be tapped."

Comprehension washed over him. "Okay, then how do we get the message to him?"

Callie took the phone from his hand and scrolled down to Liz's burn phone number. "Liz calls him; sets up a meeting; and relays the message directly in a public place. The bad guys have no time to set up surveillance. As long as they stay out of earshot it's easy peasy."

A few minutes later, everything was arranged. Blake was again in awe of Callie's ability to think things through incisively. She saw through chaos to the core of the problem. After that, the solution seemed to suggest itself automatically. He wondered if she truly appreciated how unique and amazing she really was.

She was the perfect complement to his personality. He was a strategic thinker. She was a tactical wizard. There was nothing the two of them couldn't accomplish working as a team.

"Now all we have to do is hope that Ken agrees with the plan." Callie chewed charmingly on her lower lip as she pondered the likelihood that he would.

Blake reassured her. "If I know Ken, he has the damned thing already written, except for the final paragraph or two. Don't worry; he'll go along with your idea. It makes sense to take out some insurance. And this policy is cheap. All he has to do is hit 'PRINT'.

Callie smiled with relief. "Liz said she'll have him call us in the morning so we can set up a time to meet. I guess that there's nothing else to do now but wait."

Blake's smile said he disagreed. "I know something else to do."

He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her hotly, tasting her lips hungrily. She felt her flash-fire response to him ignite all of her senses. Her whole body responded instantly to Blake's kisses. She craved him, she needed him; now.

Callie made a mental note to tell Blake how much she enjoyed his idea of how to 'pass the time' _._

_But I'll do that later. Much later._ she thought as she abandoned herself to the heated bliss of their lovemaking.
CHAPTER 43

"Boss, you got a minute?" Ken's head was just far enough inside J.P. Kleinmann's door to be heard. If the editor was in a foul mood, the doorframe provided enough cover to protect him from all but the best aimed missile.

J.P. usually threw one of the many stress reducer toys on his desk. Occasionally, on particularly bad days, he had been known to snatch up staplers, tape dispensers, and once – only once – a coffee mug. Coffee was more than a beverage to J.P. Kleinmann; it was a food group.

Kleinmann never seemed to understand that you should squeeze the oddly shaped foam filled toys to relieve stress. Instead, he used them to ward off unwanted reporters, secretaries, copyists, or whoever was bothering him. One junior reporter with a college degree and a head full of misconceptions about the newspaper business tried to explain that once. He had to take the rest of the day off after J.P.'s gravelly voice informed him, "I keep a large stock of young reporters around in case I need to strangle something to relieve my stress."

Kleinmann looked up from the computer screen where he was busily butchering someone else's work. The mangled stub of an unlit cigar was held in his jaws like a piece of pipe in a vise.

"What?" came from around the gnawed roll of tobacco leaves. Kleinmann had refused to give up cigars even though the office had become a no smoking building almost a decade before. He sure wasn't going to go downstairs and skulk in the alley with all the other smokers, so he mangled cigars instead.

The fact that he was not assaulted by a flying object emboldened Ken. He stepped inside the door and gestured toward one of the heavy metal 'real reporter's office' chairs that Kleinmann kept for those visitors allowed to stay long enough to sit down.

Kleinmann cocked an eyebrow and then nodded. He hit the save button and directed his attention toward Ken. "At the risk of repeating myself, which you know I _hate_ to do unless I'm yelling at some idiot, what?"

Ken handed over the manila envelope. His eyes sparked with anticipation. He knew how much J.P. Kleinmann wanted to nail Will Sampson for something, anything substantial. "I think you are going to love my new exposé."

As Kleinmann started to shuffle through the printouts of Trish's notes, Ken continued. "It has everything. Crime, cover-ups, gangsters, attempted kidnapping, framing an innocent man, and best of all; it stars none other than your favorite politician and mine, Will Sampson."

Kleinmann's cigar stub was bobbing up and down like a dingy on a rough sea as he scanned the notes. He looked up at Ken and straightened the papers so they would fit back in the envelope. His eyes blazed with the cold fire of anticipation. "Save me the trouble of reading all this. Tell me what you got."

He eased back into his ratty leather chair as Ken leaned forward.

Ken spent the next half hour relating the highlights of Trish's notes and how Callie was nearly killed or kidnapped by the watchers. He tied it all together with Sampson's earlier misdeeds. At the end of his summation, Kleinmann was smiling; something he rarely did at work.

Ken's pause was pregnant with meaning and it became clear to J.P. that there was something more, something Ken was reluctant to come out with.

"Kenny, you've done your homework. The story is clean and clear and it's going to run on page one under a banner headline that screams. So why is it I can't help feeling like you have something else to say that you don't really want to tell me?"

Ken's head drooped. He knew that Jack Yardley and J.P. Kleinmann had started out together at the paper. Kleinmann's drive and skill as a wordsmith had seen him advance ahead of his friend. Yardley's love for the bottle hadn't helped his career either but somehow, J.P. had always carried Yardley along.

"This is the tough part boss." He angled his eyes toward the editor without raising his head. It was an appeal for understanding.

"I'm pretty sure Sampson has a mole in our office. What's more, I'm pretty sure I know who it is." He waited for the explosion.

Kleinmann shot to his feet so quickly that his chair bounced off the file cabinets behind him.

"Who is it?" he shouted. "Tell me who it is and I'll personally strangle the sonavabitch."

His fists pounded down on the desktop so hard that the flat screen monitor jumped, teetered, and threatened to fall over before it settled back down, slightly out of place.

Ken's head came up and he looked straight into the glaring eyes of J.P. Kleinmann. He had hoped never to see that look on Kleinmann's face. He thanked the stars that the rage wasn't directed at him.

Well, at least not yet. "It's Jack. Jack Yardley."

Kleinmann's mouth fell open. The cigar stub tumbled down his shirt, bounced off the edge of the desk and rolled under it. Kleinmann stood transfixed with shock.

As he slumped back into his chair he muttered, "Jack. Are you sure?"

Ken nodded. He could only imagine what a blow it was to Kleinmann. He explained about Long Horse Lake and how Jack had been poking around ever since. He also told the editor about Jack's mystery woman and how he thought she might be was a key campaign aide to Sampson.

Kleinmann stared at a point in space somewhere over Ken's right shoulder. "Well, the dumb drunken fool has finally done it. He's finally screwed up bad enough that I can't cover for him."

His gaze came back to Ken's face. "That took guts kid. I always knew you had what it took to be great at this game."

He took a fresh cigar from his desk drawer and unwrapped it. He was already chewing vigorously on it as he tied the cellophane wrapper into a series of knots.

"So, where do you go from here?" The mug of lukewarm coffee made its way slowly to the editor's lips.

Ken took a deep breath, grateful to have survived the revelation of Yardley's duplicity. "I'm meeting Farmington and another person this afternoon. We're going to confront Sampson and force him to publicly resign before we turn everything over to the cops."

"That's skating pretty close to the edge." Kleinmann took another sip of the cold dark brew that sustained him.

"I know. But, really, without his admission, everything is pretty circumstantial. We could take it to the cops now but what if they don't believe it? I figure better to confront him and blitz him so he doesn't have any time to cook up and rehearse an explanation."

Kleinmann nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense. But be sure you have a recorder with you. I don't want any allegations that we interfered with a police investigation or any other crap like that."

Ken's head bobbed in acknowledgment.

"What about this other person? How does he tie into this? Is he reliable or does he have an axe to grind? If so, does it adversely impact our credibility? "Kleinmann rattled off the possible problem questions in rapid succession.

Ken smiled. It was good to be prepared. "Actually, he's a she. She's from Sampson's district and kinda knows him. Now she's sorta been shanghaied into helping prove Farmington's innocence."

Kleinmann looked dubious. Ken knew where his anxiety lay. "She's not going to muddy the water. In fact, she's going to help distill it to crystal clarity."

Kleinmann nodded with approving resignation. His hand came down flat on the desk blotter with a solid smack. "Alright then, get on with it."

"What about Yardley?" Ken's question was heavy with doubt.

"Don't worry about him. I'll make sure Jack isn't a problem." Kleinmann made a 'shooing' gesture toward the door.

Ken left and, as he softly closed the door, he thought how thankful he was to not be in Yardley's shoes right now.

_Time to say goodbye, Dolly_. Jack Yardley's fingers trembled as they pushed the soft rubbery buttons on his mobile phone.

Conflicting emotions had washed over him for a good hour after leaving J.P. Kleinmann's office. He hadn't even stopped at his desk to collect his things. He left the building like a fast moving storm. Darkness on the move leaving a wake of bitter despair.

He found himself in his favorite booth at his favorite bar, attempting to dissipate his turmoil through the liberal application of scotch whiskey. As he struggled to press the last digit on the keypad it struck him that he didn't know if he was trembling from fear, anger, relief, or the accumulated effects of too much alcohol.

The ringing ended as the sultry voice answered his call. "Hello gorshus...I mean gor - geous." He struggled to enunciate and maintain his thin veneer of suavity.

"It's Jackie boy." Another slug of amber courage washed over his tongue. "Got some bad news, I'm afraid."

He noticed that the purring on the other end had changed to a hiss of disapproval. The sibilant 'yes' drew out menacingly.

" 'fraid they moved me off the crime desk; 'fective 'mediately. Seems someone's connecting the dots and the picture is of a rat." He was warming to his subject as the fiery liquid found its way into the pit of his stomach.

"Funny thing is, the rat looks a lot like me." His pause was met with icy silence. He thought it best to warm himself a bit more to ward off the chill so he gestured for another drink.

The barkeeper nodded and he noted how the light played off her deep brunette hair. He wondered if the Dolly had brunette hair. He would probably never know now. His fantasy world was crumbling around him, adding to the rubble of his career.

"Some little shit's made a connection between me and the efforts to bring Farmington to heel." The golden liquid no longer swirled in the glass first, making musical tones with the ice cubes. Now it just disappeared in haste.

The hand that held the empty glass gestured with a pointed finger. It stabbed the air emphatically. "Didn't admit anything. Didn't tell 'em anything either." He gestured again for a refill.

"Bastards didn't have the grace to fire me. Just sidelined me."

He chuckled in wry amusement. "You'll appreciate this. Now, guess where they're sending me? Go ahead. Guess."

The silence was absolute. "Gardening."

He erupted with bitter laughter as the glass came down on the tabletop slightly askew. Ice cubes jumped from the tumbler as if trying to flee the barkeeper's disapproving stare.

Yardley made an apologetic face and tried to blot up the mess with the remnants of a shredded cocktail napkin.

"Never mentioned you. Didn't want them to know about the gorgeous Dolly. 's why I never called you from the office phone but you never can tell about these tricky dicks. Thought I should give you the 'heads up' on it."

He paused for emphasis before delivering the humorous line he had refined and practiced for the past half hour. "Don't suppose you'll need the inside dope on the Dahlia Society in Tacoma, will you?"

He didn't know what response he had expected or even hoped for but it wasn't the abrupt click of disconnection.

Shrugging, Yardley put the cell phone down atop one of the escaped ice cubes. It skittered off with a clatter as the cube oozed away from the offending instrument. Gesturing for another drink he reassured the barkeeper, "No ice this time, okay Mel?"

Susan Fields weighed her options. None of them tilted the scales to the positive side. This entire operation had been an unmitigated disaster. Absolutely nothing had gone right, not from the very beginning. She had never run an op that had gone so unerringly and consistently wrong.

Yardley's call had been the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. She could count on the watchers she had hired. They were professionals. They were in the game for the adrenaline rush and the money. They knew the risks and they would keep silent no matter what. Most of them were ex-special forces of one sort or another. All had been taught to resist interrogation much harsher than anything the police were likely to use.

Yardley was the unreliable factor but even that wasn't that much of a problem. He had the number to a burn phone that forwarded to her cell. No more burn phone, no more connection.

What worried her most was her employer. Not that pompous, testosterone driven little twerp on the campaign trail, but instead, her real employer.

Organized criminals were not known for their tolerance of failure. Nor were they known for their acceptance of a single glitch in an otherwise unblemished string of successes. She might be able to slough it off onto the twerp but she would have to work fast and distance herself from this debacle.

Susan had always maintained a back door for emergencies. She had a series of safe houses, resources, and caches of money in place. She had a getaway bag and could drop off the face of the planet with minimal preparation.

There were documents to destroy or replace with the phonies she always kept ready. The false clues to her possible destination were already in place. She had always thought it best to have the escape plan prepped and ready at the beginning of an operation. If it wasn't needed, she could always pack it up and scoot at the end.

However, if things went sour, she could rest assured that her escape would be effective because it had been set up beforehand, when she had the time to be careful and double check that it was right. Acting in a panic was the surest way to make mistakes, disastrous mistakes with undesirable consequences. Really all she needed to do was throw her personal items into a bag and disconnect the laptop.

The thick carpeting in the hallway muffled the footsteps outside her condo door. But the web cam with the wide angle lens hidden in the decorative molding above it showed all comings and goings. The soft chime from the laptop alerted her to the approaching man. Even if she hadn't recognized him, the proper sequence of knocks on the door identified him as a friend.

Susan threw a quick glance into the mirror in the foyer. Every hair was in place. Her makeup was perfect. The recently refreshed lipstick made her lips look plump, luscious, inviting. She was more than ready to receive her gentleman caller.

She opened the door, peeking shyly around the edge. Her long hair fell forward, provocatively covering one eye. Sex appeal was her strongest weapon and she wielded it with lethal precision against all males.

She worked the husky pout into her voice as she peered at him. "Hello lover. What are you doing here?"
CHAPTER 44

Alvin Baines nodded a greeting to the patrolman standing in the hallway. He shook the raindrops off his jacket before removing it and leaving it in the hallway. _No sense contaminating the scene any more than necessary_ he thought as he eased through the open doorway.

"Over here Al. In the kitchen." Mike Hennessy turned back to watch the forensic officer at work.

Baines sidled up next to him. "So, what do we know?" He pulled a fresh pack of gum from his pocket.

Hennessy carelessly gestured toward the woman's body. "Not a lot. Stabbed. Probably within the last hour or two. Name on the mail box downstairs says 'S. Fields'. Looks like someone wanted us to think it was a robbery."

"Yeah?" Baines carefully folded the gum wrapper flat. "I take it you're not convinced?"

"Not so much. I mean, sure, there are things missing. It's pretty obvious there was a laptop in the desk. You can see the cables just hanging there." Hennessy gestured toward the dangling wires with his pen.

"Did a quick walk through the rest of the apartment. Found her jewelry case. All that's left are the cardboard storage boxes from several high end jewelers, empty of course." The pen flicked over Hennessy's shoulder in the general direction of the bedroom.

"Also, her purse has been gone through and the wallet is missing." He snapped the small three ring binder closed.

"But, for my money, that's the real clincher." Hennessy pointed to an open kitchen cupboard. Inside it Baines could see neat lines of crystal wine glasses. They were suspended from rails, each gleamingly clean and precisely spaced. No large shards of glass were on the floor but one glass was obviously missing. Below the cupboard stood an open bottle of red wine. The label was in French. Looking at the vintage date, Baines suspected that it cost about as much as he earned in a week. The cork lay casually next to the electric opener on the counter.

"I mean, what'd she do, come in, find the robber and then offer him a glass of wine?" Hennessy flipped the small notebook open again. It was about the size of a paperback book and was filled with case notes. Each case was neatly set apart from the others by small adhesive plastic tabs.

Baines studied the tableau as he folded the gum wrapper into a crisscross braided tower. "Maybe the glass was broken earlier or maybe she used it herself earlier."

He was chewing his gum vigorously as he bent to shine a pocket flashlight under the kickboards of the kitchen cupboards. "Nope, no little bits either."

Baines straightened up, stretching his back and tucking the complexly folded gum wrapper carefully into his back pocket. "We'll have to wait for the coroner to move the body before we can look in the dishwasher. It's possible the missing glass is in there. Or maybe our killer is just one cool, methodical customer."

Baines turned a knowing eye to his partner. "Let's hope not. Right?"

Hennessy made a face that was somewhere between disgust and worry. His response was a terse agreement.

Hennessy consulted the book and then closing it, slid it into the outside pocket of his sports coat. "The initial call came into 9-1-1 as a possible domestic. A neighbor phoned it in but not right away. She waited around thirty minutes before calling in."

Baines cocked his head slightly, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Hennessy scratched absently at his temple. "Said she wanted to be sure it was important enough to call about."

"Ah." The terse sound came out with a knowing tone. "And what made her decide it was _important enough_ to call?"

"She said she has lived next door to our vic for two years and never heard a peep out of her. No loud music. No arguments. No heavy duty 'hunka-chunka' sounds. Nothing." Hennessy shrugged.

"Said that the vic occasionally had male callers but they looked more like business associates. No real sign of a boyfriend or lover, per se. I guess it took her a while to figure out that any sound was suspicious before she called."

Baines nodded. "Sounds like our favorite kind. A one person neighborhood watch. Does she know what Ms. Fields did for a living that she would have 'business associates' call on her?"

"Nope. Apparently Ms. Fields kept to herself. Said that she was cordial but 'not friendly' whenever she saw her in the hallway or the garage. Described her as smooth and distant, like a politician, she said."

"I don't suppose she saw anything? Or anyone today around the time in question?"

Hennessy ruefully shook his head. "But then, she wouldn't would she? I mean, if she waited a half hour or more?"

Baines scanned the stylishly modern living room. There was no sign of a struggle. Just a cold, sterile room that could have been in a magazine. There were no 'personal' touches. Nothing to indicate that a real person live here. "Maybe not, but it took someone a while to riffle through the jewelry, her purse, and snag the laptop."

Baines stepped out of the way as the coroner's assistants wheeled the stretcher past him and into the kitchen. "Got photos and everything we need before they take the body?" His question to Hennessy was pro forma because he already knew the answer. Mike Hennessy was meticulous about details.

"Yep. We're good to go." Hennessy was watching them set the body bag onto the stretcher. He was vaguely aware of Baines fingering one of the cables that lay unused on the desk.

Baines dropped the cable absentmindedly as the attendants reached to turn Susan's body over. He studied their actions with a cold, critical eye toward any trace evidence that might be hidden under the corpse.

As the coroner's people rolled the body over and lifted it off the floor, he noted a lapel pin affixed to the victim's jacket. "Hang on a sec." he said as they were about to zip the body bag closed.

"Al." he called out as he zeroed in on the lapel pin. Hennessy pulled out an exam glove from the other skirt pocket of his sports coat. It snapped satisfyingly against his wrist before he reached for the woman's blood soaked jacket lapel.

The coroner's assistants had moved back, allowing the detectives room to examine the body more closely. Baines resisted the temptation to put on a glove as well. He knew that Hennessy wouldn't take offense but he also knew that it wasn't necessary for him to examine the pin right now.

Hennessy carefully gripped the pin by its edges so as to not smear any fingerprints. He reached underneath and undid the pin back. Pulling it away from the jacket, he looked at the back side. "Eighteen carat." The words escaped his lips, almost a whisper.

He looked up to see Baines staring at the front of the pin. "That's the logo for Sampson's campaign, isn't it Mike?"

Hennessy carefully turned the pin so he could see the front side. "Yeah. It is. And judging by the quality, I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say that she wasn't just some random volunteer."

Hennessy dropped the campaign pin into a plastic evidence bag as Baines gestured toward the tear in the woman's coat. It was obviously the site where the weapon had stabbed her. He donned a glove and gently pulled the coat aside. "See? Looks like metal. Maybe between the fifth and sixth ribs."

Baines was careful to point at but not touch the area.

"We'll need to wait for the post mortem but I'd hazard a guess that our killer's blade broke off inside the wound. Maybe she turned away when he jabbed her and it bound against the ribs. There might be enough force between the turn and her falling to snap it off."

Hennessy was amazed. He was good but Al Baines was the best.

_Who else would have seen the blade fragment beneath a blood soaked blazer and blouse?_ he wondered.

"So, she's here with someone she knows. Someone she's comfortable with. And what? She offers him some wine. Reaches for a glass and as she's setting it down, he stabs her?"

Baines nodded, stripping off the exam glove so that the bloody part was to the inside. "That'd be my guess. Like I said; a cool customer."

Baines opened the dishwasher door. At least he guessed it was a dishwasher. The panel of brushed stainless steel betrayed none of the buttons and latches he expected. Its starkness was relieved only by a handle at the top. He peered at the stainless steel inside, sliding out the top and bottom racks. "Nope, no wine glass. Not that I expected to find one."

Hennessy said nothing as he stared at Baines.

Baines carefully, almost reverently closed the dishwasher door. "Crystal. The wine glasses are crystal. You don't wash crystal. You just rinse it under hot water. I suppose that you could do that in a dishwasher but there's too much chance of residue."

"How the hell do you know that?" Hennessy marveled at yet another of the esoteric bits of knowledge his partner realized.

"Grandma Baines. The old girl had some German crystal from before the First World War. She treated it like it was some holy relic." He enjoyed the look of amazement on Hennessy's face. It was nice to know that after five years working together he could still 'wow' his partner.

"So, my guess is, the wine glass broke as she fell. Our guy, you notice I'm assuming it's a guy? Anyway, our guy picks up the broken pieces, cleans out the valuables and snags the laptop before he calmly saunters out. He probably didn't have any pliers with him so he had to leave the knife blade but, I'll bet if he'd had them, he'd've taken that too. I was wrong. He's not a cool customer. He's one cold blooded sonovabitch."

Baines walked back to the desk with the detached computer cables. "I'll also bet if we could find the laptop, we'd know exactly who our killer is."

Hennessy followed Baines' finger. One of the USB cords was attached to a box with video cables. "It seems Ms. Fields knew a thing or two about security. I'll bet that there are surveillance cameras in here and maybe in the hallway. Regardless, our killer knew that. He must have snagged the laptop as a precaution. Get the tech guys in here and let's see where the cameras are."

Baines turned and started walking toward the door. "Go over this place with a fine toothed comb Mike. There's more here than we're seeing."

Hennessy was taking his mobile phone out of his pocket. He paused and watched Baines open the door to the hallway. "And while I'm doing that, where are you going to be?" The question wasn't petulant or resentful. He just wanted to know more about the plan for the investigation.

"I'm going to drop in on Mr. Sampson. I'd like to know more about Ms. Fields and how she fits into his campaign." Baines shrugged into his jacket.

You can't just drop in on a Congressional candidate. Besides, how do you know where he'll be?"

Baines smiled. "I have a buddy in intel. He said that Sampson's planning a major speech and announcement at his rally tomorrow."

Hennessy shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

"Well, my buddy says that whenever Sampson has something like that planned, he spends the day before at home practicing. He's really a bug about seeming to be able to speak without notes. Doesn't let anyone in. Not campaign people, no friends, no one. Hell, he even booted out that part-time girlfriend he had."

"So, you figure to find him at home?"

Baines sketched a one finger salute. "Yep."

"But what about his security people? How are you planning to get through them?" Hennessy winked and pointed at Baines as if to say 'gotcha'.

"What security people? Sampson's big deal is that he's a man of the people. He's refused security except at rallies and such. Says he's a private citizen, firm believer in the Second Amendment, and has a nine millimeter in his desk. Apparently he knows how to use it too. My buddy says that he's a regular at the local indoor pistol range. Sampson makes a big deal out of saying that he won't 'waste the taxpayer's money' on personal protection as long as he can hold his nine mil."

Baines guffawed. "He's going to have to accept it if he's elected but until then, he's not having any."

Hennessy shook his head ruefully. "Macho showboat asshole."

Over his shoulder Baines replied, "He can afford to be. He doesn't have to do the paperwork if someone shoots him." He waved absently as he ambled down the hallway toward the elevators.
CHAPTER 45

Blake eased the little all wheel drive wagon through another series of curves on the highway. He was enjoying the sensation of driving Callie's car. He was glad that she had permitted him to drive down from the retreat. He was savoring the return of control to his life. They were on their way to confronting Will Sampson for the murder of Callie's sister. They were going to set the record straight.

He snorted softly as he thought, _Hell, we're going to set a lot of records straight today._

The warm sunshine on his face strengthened Blake's sense of wellbeing, his sense that life was finally returning to normal.

For Callie, the ride down the mountain was silent torture.

She didn't notice the clear blue water of the mountain stream churning into white foam over the shiny dark rocks. The yellow and purple splendor of the wildflowers that carpeted the hillsides went unnoticed.

The fresh smell of conifer forest accented by the occasional spicy tang of cedar failed to register.

What she could see was that Blake was alive with excitement. He radiated confidence and relief that his ordeal would soon be over and _that_ chilled her. Callie's mind churned over two big concerns.

The first and most immediate came from Blake's dangerous plan to confront Will. He and Ken were treating this like some sporting event. If Will really was Trish's murderer, he was dangerous, very dangerous. She couldn't bear the thought of losing Blake now that she had found him.

She remembered how she had fought against her feelings. She had actually _tried_ to not fall in love with him. Ever since that first kiss at the rest area when Blake lied to the old man, saying she was his new bride, she had dreamed of it being so. Luxuriating his strong arms, feeling the warmth of his body, thrilling to his touch, just sharing his presence in the same room had become part of her, a part that could be wrenched from her by the same man who had taken her sister away from her.

The second was the nagging anxiety over what would happen once he was free to resume his former life. How would she ever fit into his world? She had no model for being the partner of a multi-millionaire. Her upbringing prepared her to be what she was, not a society maven.

Unbidden, a memory from her childhood came back to her.

Aunt Jean and Uncle Mac had made sure that she got a good education. They sent her to a private school where Callie excelled academically and suffered socially. She didn't fit in with the majority of the children. Unlike them, she came from a less privileged, less moneyed background. Not that Uncle Mac didn't earn a good living. But there were fewer 'extras' and almost none of the 'name' labels in her life.

When she was younger, the differences didn't seem to matter as much. But, as she approached adolescence, the disparity began to take on greater significance.

At first there were the snide looks. Then there were whispered comments behind cupped hands. Those developed into gales of giggles from the 'popular' girls when she walked by. Finally, the taunting took on a physical dimension. Bumps, elbows, 'accidental' kicks, snatching at her clothing, all the affronts of burgeoning pre-adolescent cruelty came to the fore.

Callie tried to ignore them but everything came to a head one day when someone pulled at her sweater. It was her favorite, a Christmas gift from the year before.

She whirled around to confront her tormentors. Her voice was no longer meek. "Don't, you'll rip it."

She remembered the girl's name, even to this day. Charity Johnson.

Charity sneered at Callie. Her hands on the hips of her designer skirt, one spindly, knobby kneed leg thrust arrogantly forward. "So?"

The single word was the first cutting goad, drawing blood immediately.

"It's my favorite. It's special and I don't want it ripped." Callie wrapped her arms around her body.

Charity looked around herself, smirking at each member of her clique. Her ponytail swished from side to side like a scourge, urging her friends to join in her cruelty.

"Special? _That's_ not special. You probably got it used at a thrift shop." Chastity's barb was echoed by a chorus of taunts from her haughty companions.

"Yeah. A thrift shop." one girl repeated.

"No, no. I know. A garbage can." another escalated.

The insults continued, each one hurting more than the next. She felt as if she was being stabbed at from all sides. Callie dissolved into tears and fled to the restroom.

That afternoon, when she got home from school, she stayed in her bedroom, crying. Aunt Jean came up to check up on her. Callie tried to sound normal but the tears tainted her voice.

When Aunt Jean came in Callie broke down and the story of how the other girls had taunted her came flooding out among the tears. The whole story spilled out of her between huge, gulping sobs that choked off her words. The slights, the taunts, the bullying.

Aunt Jean had cradled her, stroking her hair and making comforting sounds of reassurance. But Callie was certain that her heart would never heal.

When she finally calmed down, when the tears had all run dry, Aunt Jean led her downstairs to the kitchen. They sat sipping steaming mugs of Chai tea and, after a while Aunt Jean spoke.

"Want to talk a little?" The gentle question was asked as Aunt Jean went to take a sip of tea. The steam from the rich brown liquid distorted with her words. Small tendrils of vapor wafted the spicy scent of comfort toward Callie.

Stifling a sob she nodded. She really didn't want to talk about it but she also knew that Aunt Jean often had a way of making things better.

"How long has this been going on?" Her eyes peered through the mist rising from the cup. Their medium blue color washed almost white by the steam.

"About two years." A sniffle escaped as Callie hastily set down her tea and reached for a tissue.

"Honey, why didn't you tell us, or a teacher, or someone?" There was a soft slurping sound as hot liquid passed over Aunt Jean's lips.

"What good would it do? They all hate me. I'll never fit in." The halting litany was defensively delivered. "I mean, they're all rich and we aren't." Callie's eyes hardened defensively.

The hurt crept back into her voice as she hurried to hide behind the veil of steam from her own mug.

Aunt Jean set her tea down very quietly. Her eyes followed the slow, deliberate decent of the mug toward the small mat that protected the tabletop in front of her.

Aunt Jean's hand slowly stretched across the table between them. She took Callie's hand and held it in her own. The warmth of her skin, added to by the heat from holding the mug of tea telegraphed comfort and a little reassurance up Callie's arm and into her chest.

"I'm not so sure that's the problem." The squeeze of encouragement before she let go told Callie there was more to come.

"I think that those girls are jealous of you." The statement caught Callie by surprise. Her eyes widened slightly.

"It's true." Aunt Jean repeated.

"Jealous? Of me? How could they be jealous of me?" Callie ran down a laundry list of name brand clothes, shoes, accessories, makeup, and more. Each time she ticked off an item from the list she stared at Aunt Jean, waiting to be contradicted.

When she ran out of things to name she repeated her question. "How could they be jealous of me? They have everything."

Moisture welled up in her eyes as she took another sip of the hot, spicy Chai, to fight down the torrent of anguish which threatened to return.

Aunt Jean sat as calmly as a Buddha. Her face was composure itself. "You've only named things."

"So? This started with my sweater. That's a thing." Callie couldn't understand why Aunt Jean was acting this way.

She reached across the kitchen table and took both of Callie's hands in hers. "Callie, honey. Any fool can buy _things_. It only takes money. You have things those girls will never have. You have manners, morals, ethics, and most of all – intelligence."

Callie's mouth opened to protest but Aunt Jean cut her off. "How well do those girls do in school?"

Callie remembered that Charity had to go to summer school for the past two years on order to stay with her class. Now that she thought about it, two of Chastity's friends got picked up every afternoon by one of the tutoring centers.

"I don't think they're doing all that well." The words were quiet, thoughtful. Her anguish was dampened by dawning understanding.

Aunt Jean's intense gaze bored into her. "And how many advanced placement classes are you taking?"

Callie sighed that quintessential adolescent sigh. "You know _all_ my classes are advanced placement."

Her aunt sat back and took a long sip of her tea. "So, you're so smart, you'll skip your freshman year in high school. And they have to struggle just to keep up with their grade level. Don't you think that's enough to make them feel inferior?"

"So?" Callie wasn't ready to concede yet but she had to admit that she was feeling a whole lot better about herself.

Aunt Jean made that special, knowing, 'I told you so' grin she had. "Sooooo. They know you're smarter than they are. Their parent's can't buy intelligence for them, no matter how long they spend in the after school learning center."

She sipped the cooling spiced tea before finishing her point. "They know you're going to leave them far behind. So, they try to make themselves feel better by making you feel inferior because you don't have their _things_."

"But what do I do now?" Callie's eyes welled up.

"You hold your head up. You keep your dignity. And..." a knowing smile played across Aunt Jean's face. "You don't give into them."

Aunt Jean squeezed Callie's hand and then reached for her tea. "Don't be ashamed of who you are Callie. Believe in yourself as much as Uncle Mac and I believe in you. Smart people, good people, honest people are always treasured. You are all three. That'll carry you a lot farther and to better places than being a name dropping fool."

Now Callie finally understood what Aunt Jean had been saying all those years ago. It hadn't always been easy but she had learned a lot since then about her own strengths and abilities. Blake loved her for who she was, not for the clothes she wore, who she knew, who her family was, or names she dropped.

Even if she wasn't exactly sure of how Blake's family would accept her or where the future would lead them, she could draw strength from knowing exactly where she stood. At Blake's side, shoulder to shoulder. Together with him as they faced their future.

It was as if the sun had peeked out from between storm clouds. There might be foul weather ahead but there was also the potential of sunshine as well. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

Callie studied Blake's rugged features. It was hard for her to reconcile his wealth and power with the man she had come to know. _Her_ Blake was like some beautiful, wild, virile forest creature. The plaid shirt with its sleeves rolled back showed his muscular arms, the jeans that were tight in all the right places, his ebony hair, now a bit longish and tousled by the wind, and the stubble on his chin that gave him a quintessentially masculine look.

Steeling her nerves she looked at the craggy Adonis whom she loved so deeply. "Blake..... We need to talk."

His stomach tightened with alarm.

Blake hated that expression. No one ever said 'we need to talk' and then followed it up with good news. He knew his face had become a featureless mask.

The sunshine which moments before had been so comfortable now lost its warmth. It was replaced by a frisson of fear. He couldn't bring himself to look at Callie just then.

The car emerged from the last turn. Before them was the long, relatively straight downgrade out of the Cascades and onto the littoral plain that spread east from the Puget Sound. Blake swerved abruptly into the empty parking area at the vista point.

A small squeal of alarm escaped Callie as she braced herself against the dashboard. She was astonished that they did not hit the rock wall protecting them from the long steep drop off.

He brought the wagon to a jarring halt a mere fraction of a second before he cut the ignition. They turned to look at each other.

Callie knew in her bones that this was probably hopeless but she had opened the door. There was nothing left to do but walk through it. She took an exaggerated deep breath as she let go of the dash.

She noticed that her fingers had left soft dimples in the vinyl covering. She exhaled, blowing the air out slowly between pursed lips. She took a second breath before continuing. "I know that you and Ken are big, strapping guys."

Blake maintained his silent, intensely focused stare. She felt it probing her, demanding to know what she was thinking.

Gulping air like a drowning woman going down for the last time Callie blurted out, "Damn it Blake. I don't want you to confront Will. Let's just go to the cops with what we have. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

Shock registered on his face. He thought they had put this issue to rest. The plan was good. It was solid. It would work. It had to.

Before he could say anything she plunged ahead. "You are the most amazing man I've ever met. You're smart, sexy, brave, tender, and the most satisfying lover I've ever had."

She blushed furiously at that last statement. "Not that I've had a lot of lovers.... I mean....." She trailed off in a welter of embarrassment.

"Damn it! You changed my life. You've shown me what true love and tenderness looks like and I'm terrified that you'll get hurt." Tears began to trace their way down her cheeks.

"Or killed." The last words carried a leaden weight of dread. The lump in Callie's throat felt like she had swallowed a whole egg, shell and all. She rubbed away the tears with both hands and then wiped them on her jeans.

Blake's countenance softened dramatically. "Callie, we've been through this already. We can't go to the cops with what we have. It's just not enough. Maybe in time they could piece it all together but right now, I'd still be in it up to my eyebrows in this mess. I can't do that to my family, to the business, and most especially to you."

His large, powerful, calloused hand came to rest on her shoulder with the softness of a butterfly. It squeezed her tenderly, comfortingly. "We need Sampson to provide the catalyst. We have to get a confession out of him."

Sniffles punctuated her grudging nod of assent. She could not bring her reddened eyes to meet his.

Blake studied her face, her posture and realized that there was more she was not saying.

"Callie, love, most precious Callie. What are you not telling me? If there's something else about Sampson tell me now. It may be important." He leaned toward her searching her beloved face with blue eyes full of concern.

"It's not about Will." A shuddering sob wracked her.

Blake was taken aback. What else could be upsetting her this much? "What then?"

"It's your family." A sudden shower of tears cascaded down her cheeks. She reached into the glove box for one of the paper napkins she kept in there.

Blake was completely nonplussed. He stared at her; incomprehension etched the planes of his face. "My family?"

Callie blew her nose into the napkin and carefully put it into the plastic trash bag hanging on the door. She reached for another, as the fall of tears increased. Between gasps she choked out, "What if they hate me? What if they think I'm just some gold digging nobody who trapped you when you were vulnerable?"

Her shoulders shook with her sobs.

Blake's unrestrained eruption of laughter shocked her. Hot anger flushed her face as her eyes drilled into him. "How could you? Are you that uncaring about my feelings?"

She struck him with her fist. It glanced off his broad shoulder like a leaf off a building wall.

Through his laughter Blake explained. "Callie, my family is going to love you. You're everything they value. Your smart, self sufficient, insightful, loyal, determined. I told you once before. You're just plain wonderful."

Her hand stopped in mid arc as it was descending, ready to strike his shoulder again. "But I'm nobody. I run a little coffee stand and have delusions of grandeur about opening a café."

"And I want to open a restaurant that serves frontier food. We're two of a kind. Believe me; they're going to love you. Most of all they're going to love you because they'll see how much you love me. That's what matters the most to them."

His beaming face melted her fears. "We may have money Callie, but we know what's really important in life."

She fell into his arms, those wonderful, powerful arms that closed so lovingly and protectively around her. Her fearful tears transformed into joyful relief as she heard him murmur into her hair, "I can't live without you Callie Ann. You complete me. You are the missing part of me I have been seeking all my life."

Callie nuzzled against his chest, wriggling even closer to him.

They sat there quietly holding each other, occasionally trading those soft loving kisses that bespeak a caring deeper than passion. Before them, the view of the plain and the Sound beyond spread out like a new world. A world of love and hope.

Blake carefully maneuvered the green wagon into a parking hole down the street from the neighborhood market. It was one of those anonymous places that dotted the street corners in many of Seattle's older neighborhoods. They had become trendy places thanks to the influx of urban pioneers who wanted to reclaim older buildings, preserve the exterior architecture, and convert the interiors to airy modern apartments.

Before locking the car, Blake rummaged through one of the boxes of coffee supplies. He came up with what looked like a long, flat swath of leather with a wooden handle on it. Callie's eyes widened as she realized it was one of the trade knives she had seen in the Retreat's storage room.

Blake had shown them to her along with several other 'trade items' as he termed them. There were chips of flint, molds for bullets, ingots of soft lead, and yards of various kinds of leather among other items. He explained that all rendezvous gatherings were trade gatherings. Everyone was expected to have some requirement and some surplus.

"Do we really need that?" Callie was unsure of how she felt about Blake carrying a knife.

"I never venture into lions' dens without one." His smile was disarming but is tone made it clear to her that taking the large knife with him was not negotiable.

Shrugging, she took one last chance at dissuading him from carrying it. "It's going to be a bit obvious, isn't it? I mean, it's almost a foot long. More a sword than a knife, if you know what I mean."

Blake chuckled as he slipped the knife behind his back. There was a hidden clip that he affixed to the waistband of his jeans. He reached back behind himself with his right hand and tested the smoothness of taking the blade out of its sheath.

Satisfied with the feel of it, he pulled out the tail of his plaid over-shirt. Even though she knew where to look for it, Callie could not see the outline of the knife.

"See. No problem."

Callie hoped he was right. The whole idea of him carrying the knife added to her trepidation. _What if someone had seem him from a window? What if they thought he was going to rob a store?_ Her anxieties played across her face. She brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

Blake kissed her. His voice was calm and reassuring. "It's okay. I just feel better having it with me. Cities are a whole lot more dangerous than the forest you know?"

Even the warm way his mouth drew upward and his tender touch couldn't chase away her worries. She fretted about why Blake had even brought the knife. Was he more worried than he let on about facing an angry, cornered, desperate Will? Especially if he had a gun? She took his right arm possessively.

Callie and Blake strolled down the street arm in arm and through the front door of the market. The man behind the cash register was reading the latest self-help how-to-succeed book. He looked up as the Indian brass bells clanged against the doorframe.

Callie flashed him a genuine, brilliant smile and chirped a pert 'Hi' as they entered. He didn't recognize them as regulars but decided that they were probably visiting someone in the neighborhood. Nothing about them piqued his interest so he returned to his book. The yellow highlighter skidded across several lines of the page as he grunted with satisfaction.

They found Ken at the back of the store trying to decide which of the dozen or so bottled water brands to choose. As they approached he snatched one and moved to meet them. His voice was convivially loud. "Hey guys! Out for a walk today?"

Callie and Blake responded appropriately as they perused the bottled water. Selecting a sparkling variety, they accompanied Ken to the register.

The clerk put aside his book with an air of someone reluctantly doing a favor. "You together?" His gaze fell on Ken.

"Yep. And, uh, no bag please." Ken reached into his pocket for his wallet. He paid with cash and was sure to tuck the receipt away. Expenses were expenses. When this story broke, no one in accounting would quibble about the cost of bottled water for the source.

They walked out the door together amiably chatting about nothing as the clerk resumed his quest for fulfillment in the pages of his book.

Once outside, Ken gestured around the corner. "I'm down here about a block and a half."

Callie and Blake followed his lead. They walked quietly together. Callie and Blake were still arm in arm. Ken looked past Callie and caught Blake's eye. "You okay buddy?"

"Sure. Why?" Blake's eyebrows raised in genuine puzzlement.

"Nothin'. It's just, well, you look kinda funny." He exaggeratedly looked at Blake again.

"I look funny? How?" His confusion deepened.

"I dunno, you look ..... happy. That's not normal for you." Ken snorted and began to laugh.

Callie dissolved into giggles, clinging desperately to Blake's arm as she doubled over with amusement.

It took Blake a moment to realize that he was being teased unmercifully before he too began to laugh. His eyes danced with light, mirth, and love as he looked at Callie. "I have every reason to be happy today."

The knowing tone spoke volumes.

Ken's minivan turned onto Lakeharbor Drive. The houses were all custom built. Every one sat as close to the curb as possible to maximize the space between the rear of the house and the lake's shore. Blank walls with thin horizontal windows up high shut out the sights and sounds of the street. Privacy fences traced the property lines and more than one driveway was protected by motorized iron gates.

Across the street, the wooded hill rose steeply. Big leaf and vine maples filtered sunlight for the sword ferns that grew as thick as giant grass beneath the gnarled tree trunks.

"I sure hope we don't have to hop a gate." Ken mused as he searched the ornate house numbers of Sampson's address.

"There isn't one." Callie gestured further down the road. "The house is about a quarter of a mile down that way."

Ken's eyebrows rose as he cut his eyes toward Blake.

"She kinda knows Sampson a little better than I let on." His expression was as flat as his voice. "And, you're sure that there's no security detail?"

Ken sighed heavily. He'd done his homework. Sampson made a big point of being an 'I'll take care of myself' kind of candidate.

Before he could repeat his answer for the third time Callie interrupted. "Will never has an entourage. Maybe his campaign manager or a staffer. But, unless it's a public gathering where the Secret Service insists he has protection, he's not covered. He once caught them maintaining a discrete surveillance on the house and went ballistic. He has this real thing about self reliance."

She gave Blake a hard stare. "Not that I know anyone else like that."

Blake shook his head and tried to ignore Callie's disapproval. "Okay. No security. But I'm paranoid so make me feel better. Let's cruise by slowly like we're looking for an address. If no one is there, we'll stop on the return pass."

Ken nodded his agreement.

Callie crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw.

"It won't do you any good to pout." Blake's hand soothingly touched her forearm. She shook it off and frowned at him. "It's decided. Once you ring the bell and Sampson opens the door, Ken and I take it from there. I don't want you involved."

She glared at him now. "Blake Farmington. I said that I loved you. I didn't say that I'd submit to you. You can't just order me around like I'm some kind of office flunky."

Blake tried to comfort her by stoking her arm again. She tolerated but did not respond to his touch.

"You just don't get it do you?" She stared into his deep blue eyes.

"It's no easier for me to know you're doing something dangerous than it is for you to know I'm doing it. I want to be with you, like we've been up to now. To help. To share the burden. Besides, I have a thing or two that I want to get off my chest and if I don't say them now, I may never have another chance to tell that presumptuous, chauvinistic so and so what I think." Callie felt tears of frustration well up and her voice threatened to quiver with the intensity of her feelings.

Ken tried to look like the experienced married man when he turned to Blake. "You want my advice? Give up and let her come with us. There's no way you're going to win this argument. Even if we leave her behind, she's only going to follow. Trust me. It's easier to know where she is and what she's doing."

Blake threw up his hands in disgusted frustration. "I give up. This is not supposed to be a democracy where we vote on things. But it also looks like I have a revolt on my hands. So, since I can't beat 'em I may as well join 'em."

Ken nodded his approval. Callie, although she had made her point, was a more reserved victor. "I'm glad you came to your senses Blake."

He peered at the front of Will Sampson's lakeside house and studied the street for several yards either side of it. "I'd say it's more likely that I've lost my senses but I don't see any other way out of this and we don't have a lot of time to get this done."

Callie smiled inwardly. _Any victory is a good victory._ she thought.

They saw no occupied cars or other people on either pass by Sampson's home. Ken pulled over in a parking bay on the hill side of the street. They got out of the minivan and walked to Sampson's front door. They worked hard at looking like eager campaign staffers.

Callie rang the bell as Blake and Ken stood aside, hopefully out of the line of sight from the window lights either side of the heavy iron bound, carved wooden door.

Blake realized that he was extremely grateful their plan didn't call for breaking in. He could imagine the three of them having to use a tree trunk for a battering ram.

No one answered the door so, after what she thought was an appropriate interval, Callie rang again.

Still no one answered.

"Maybe he's gone out." Ken shrugged and waited for a response.

A roguish smile crossed Blake's face. "Yeah. Maybe." He reached for the door knob.

Callie looked startled, aghast at his audacity.

Blake shrugged. "I was just thinking that, if the door's open, maybe we should wait inside for him. After all, we're supposed to be part of his trusted campaign staff. Right?"

The knob turned smoothly under his forceful hand.

"See? He's expecting us." Blake pushed the door open. It moved effortlessly and silently on its heavy, well oiled hinges.

Callie moved to enter the doorway but Blake put a restraining hand on her arm and shook his head 'no'. He pointed to himself and then Ken and held up one finger. Then he pointed to Callie and held up two fingers, indicating that she should follow them into the house.

Blake was relieved to see that Callie acquiesced. He was worried about her being involved in this risky scheme. It would take all his power of concentration to make sure that things went well. He didn't need be worrying about Callie being in the line of fire.

Blake glided past her with the grace of a predator slipping through the forest. Ken moved smoothly in after him with a stalking ease that she had not seen in him before this. Momentarily overcome by the easy and dangerous fluidity of the two men, Callie paused to watch them.

Blake and Ken glided silently through the foyer and came to an intersecting hallway. Straight ahead, double length panels of glass looked out onto the verdant back garden and the shimmering waters of 'the Lake' as it was known in the neighborhood. Blake peeked both ways down the transecting hallway. He gestured to the right and cocked his head as if asking a question.

Callie nodded and gestured to the right as well.

Blake and Ken eased their way carefully down the hallway. Sampson had made a big deal of keeping a gun for protection. Callie had said that there were actually a couple. Will told her he kept one at his bedside and another in the desk drawer in his office. Neither Blake nor Ken wanted to be shot as a burglar. Their best chance was to 'blitz' him before he had a chance to grab the gun.

As they came to the doorway leading to what was obviously Will's office, Blake dropped into a low crouch. He was less than half his normal height. At the edge of the doorway he paused. He gestured to himself and put two fingers toward his eyes. Moving his hand away he wagged it back and forth indicating that he would take a quick peek inside the room. Pointing at Ken and Callie, he made a 'stay' gesture. Both nodded.

Blake's head darted around the corner of the doorway and back. The movement was so quick, so smooth that it was worthy of a snake. As he pulled his head back puzzlement and anger played across his strongly featured face.

Without warning he stood up slamming his fist against the door jamb.

"Well, that's just great. Damn." He stalked furiously into the room.

Ken and Callie were momentarily stunned by his actions. Recovering themselves, they followed Blake into the office. He had come to a stop mere inches inside the room. Thinking the room was empty, Ken sighed with relief. "Guess we'll have to wait for him."

He swallowed the words as soon as he uttered them. Callie saw Ken do a double take and her anxiety level rose along with the timbre of her voice. "What's wrong?"

Before Blake could warn her to not look in the room, she peered around the corner. Callie's gaze darted down to where Ken was looking.

Shock registered on her face.

"Oh!" For an instant her voice sounded calmer than he expected.

"Oh, my!" Dread suffused her words. She had a sudden flashback to the scene of Trish's murder. The same coppery smell crept into her nostrils and her stomach threatened to rebel.

Callie fought down a wave of lightheaded nausea. She looked up at Blake, searching his face for some clue of what he thought happened. "Did he... I mean.... is it suicide?"

She couldn't really imagine Will Sampson taking his own life but then again, Will was a man of deep secrets and rigid self control. Sometimes those kinds of people just snapped.

"I don't think so." He struggled to keep his reaction under control for Callie's sake.

Blake's darkened eyes swept the floor around Will's body. "All the blood pretty much rules out poison or strangulation but I don't see a weapon."

Ken nodded with a kind of absent minded detachment.

"Well, this _really_ screws up the plan, doesn't it? We're going to have a hell of a time getting him to confess now." Blake thrust his open hand emphatically, disgustedly toward Will's lifeless body. Even though he was struggling to check his rage, shreds of it hung from his words.

_Sampson has screwed me again._ he raged inwardly. _How the hell do I get out of this mess now?_

Their entire plan for exonerating him was based on Will's confession and public withdrawal from the race. They still had the documentary evidence but Blake continued to doubt that it was sufficient.

To make matters even worse, he had stumbled into another murder. They couldn't just ignore the fact that Sampson was dead. Besides, _all_ their fingerprints were inside the house now. They couldn't hope to wipe them all clean.

And, if they did, they might also wipe away the prints of whoever did this. Plus there would be additional trace evidence like hairs, soils, and heaven alone knew what else to tie them to the murder scene.

A chill of frustration and near hopelessness caused Blake to shudder inwardly. Instead of getting himself out of a hole, he had fallen into another and dragged Callie and Ken with him.

Thinking of her caused Blake to suddenly remember Callie's silent presence. He had been so focused on his frustration that he had momentarily neglected her. He hadn't even wondered how she might be feeling about this.

He searched Callie's face for any indications of what her emotions were.

He saw her struggling to rigidly control her shock and distress. Like in all the other situations she would handle this one through sheer force of will. For now. Outwardly, she looked calm, cool, and collected but Blake could read the tension and fear roiling deep within her.

Blake reached out to her to take her dangling hand in his. She startled at the contact.

Her head shot up, her eyes seeking reassurance from him. He could read the horror in them. Her pupils were dilated, leaving only a halo of amber flecked green around them. He knew she was reliving the trauma of Trish's death.

His grim countenance helped her focus. She trusted that his knowledge of practical matters and ability to solve the problems of the moment would guide her through this emotional minefield.

"You said he kept a gun in here. Do you know where he kept it?"

Grateful for something to do, Callie squeezed between Ken's back and the door frame. She avoided looking at Will's body and walked around the far side of the antique walnut desk that dominated the room. She noticed that the text of Will's speech was sitting on the blotter. The headset sat atop it, as if he had removed it to answer the phone or even possibly the door.

She reached out and took the brass handle pull of the right hand drawer. She tugged gently, the drawer lurched open, suddenly free of the snug fitting frame of the desk front. Callie looked inside. The drawer held a number of political and policy papers, a think tank report, and various other work related items. However, the cold hard outline of Will's automatic pistol was nowhere to be seen.

She pulled the drawer out further and rummaged uselessly under the various papers, pamphlets, and report folios that were inside. She knew she was doing this pro forma. The gun was not there.

She looked up and then absently plopped into the seat of Will's carmine red leather chair. "It's not there." Her face clouded over with confusion. Impulsively, she dipped her head inside the leg space of the desk and peered under it. She gasped with shock as she saw Will's lifeless hand outstretched toward her.

Rising suddenly she banged her shoulder on the underside of the lap drawer. Blake leapt over the prostrate body of the candidate and helped her from under the capacious leg space.

Callie came up massaging her shoulder. "No gun under there either."

As her eyes rose above the level of the desk, she noticed the red 'record' icon was illuminated. She picked up the headset and listened instinctively. Shaking her head at the uselessness of the gesture, she ran her finger over the laptop's touchpad. The screen glowed with renewed life.

On it she saw the interface for a sound recording program she had seen Liz use in the past. The time marker was still running. She maneuvered the mouse pointer over the 'stop' button and clicked. There was an artificial sound from the computer speakers.

Hearing it and seeing her finger move over the touchpad, Ken's attention snapped to Callie. "What did you just do?" His voice held less concern than curiosity.

"He was recording something." Callie scanned the time counter at the top of the program window. "This is a really big file. It's been running for almost forty minutes."

She repositioned the mouse cursor from 'stop' to the single triangle and bar button which would send the time marker back to the beginning of the recording. The red line leapt over the thin horizontal sea foam green line past jagged peaks and valleys of sound to the beginning of the player head.

Callie clicked on the 'play' button icon and Will's voice could be heard. "Thank you for coming today. I can't tell you how it gratifies me to see so many eager, interested faces ......" They listened for several more seconds to the opening of Will's speech.

Callie moved the play head over the screen. She had seen Liz search for particular snippets of sound this way. For some reason she remembered Liz calling it 'scrubbing the head'. She snorted nervously at the ludicrous term. Blake and Ken both looked at her with concern. She knew they were wondering if her calm exterior was coming apart.

She smiled wanly at Blake. "I'm okay. I just remember Liz calling this 'scrubbing the head'. It's just such a weird term."

Blake nodded, somewhat reassured. "So what are you doing it for?"

Ken leaned forward putting his balled up fists flat on the desktop as he peered around the edge of the screen. "You're looking for when he put the headset down, aren't you?"

He smiled and nodded. "Brilliant."

Blake still looked a bit confused. Callie shot a warmer smile his direction as she moved the head marker slowly across the visual representation of Will's speech. "We don't need to hear all of this. But, somewhere in here, he stopped speaking and took off the headset. He didn't turn off the recorder. Maybe he hit pause, but he didn't turn it off."

She saw recognition lighten the scowl on Blake's face. "And then, somehow, the recorder was turned back on."

She was studying the screen closely now as she passed the twenty minute mark. "It's possible that the change in sound or even Will's stopping the recording will show us when that happened. It may be that we can hear what was said and what happened."

Ken looked over at Blake. It was apparent that he fully comprehended what Callie was saying. A look of anticipation rested on his manly features. "Like I said man, the lady is brilliant."

Callie ignored the compliment as she found what she was looking for. There was a brief straight line where no sound was recorded. Will had stopped in mid sentence. Next there was the indication of a slight uptick in sound.

Callie stopped moving the play head forward. She moved it back to the beginning of the straight line. "I'll bet this is what we're looking for." She pressed the play icon.

The momentary silence was broken by the sound of the headset being put down on the desktop. Callie shot a quick glance at it. The microphone boom was sitting upright, like an antenna. It was perfectly positioned to pick up any nearby sounds.

Then they heard Will Sampson's voice again. It was strained, angry. "Micah. What are you doing here?"

"Will, we have to talk." The campaign manager's voice was menacingly calm.

Ken whistled softly. "Micah? Micah Alexander?"

Callie nodded.

Will's voice now held a note of concern. "Is there a problem? Is it Callie?"

Blake shot a quick look of concern in her direction. Callie was sitting impassively, watching the counter tick off on the computer's screen.

"No, it's not Callie." Irritation flared in Micah's recorded voice. "Forget about her would you. This is bigger than that. Lots bigger."

There was a significant pause. "I'm afraid it's about Susan. And it's going to affect the entire campaign."

The chair squeak was audible as Will Sampson fell back into it. "My God! What's happened?"

"Susan's failed us. Failed us miserably and I've had to do something about her." Micah's irritation was edged with exhaustion.

Disbelief carried through the microphone as Will asked, "Failed us? Failed us how?"

"Our backers, no, our patrons needed something done and she blew it. Blew it big time. She had three chances and she failed all three times."

"What do you mean our patrons? Do you mean the PAC? They aren't supposed to have anything to do with the campaign or its staff. You know that. It's the law." Sampson's voice betrayed the alarmed anger that he was beginning to feel.

"Not the PAC. I'm talking about the real powerhouse behind this campaign. The people who have invested in you. And me. The people who have made all this possible. They're not happy Will. They're not happy at all. And when they're unhappy, bad things happen."

"What the hell are you talking about Micah? _I'm_ the powerhouse of this campaign. Me. Me and the people of this district who want to save America from itself."

"You don't get it, do you Will? You just don't get it. You're a tool. A pawn. Where do you think all the PAC's money comes from? Who do you think gets you all that air time on the TV stations? Who do you think makes all those online contributions in twenty-five and fifty dollar bites? This isn't about you Will. It's about power. _Real power._ People who have real power and need a stooge like you to make it work for them."

"You're nuts Alexander!" Anger bubbled to the surface in Will's voice. He was shouting so close to the microphone that the recording echoed and fluttered.

"No one controls me. I'm the candidate. I'm the guy with the ideas. I'm the guy who's going to lead this country back to its rightful place of pride and leadership in the World. And it's the _people_ , the right thinking people who love this country, that are going to put me in a position to do that."

Micah snorted with derision. "The people? The people are cattle who will do whatever they're told to. They follow you because you're the Judas Goat that's leading them right now. And you're only going where our bosses want you to. Every speech, every appearance, everything is geared toward putting you in power to do their bidding. Not yours, not the stupid people's. Theirs. And let me tell you, I've done _soooo_ much to make that happen. You can't even imagine it."

"You _are_ nuts. You're delusional. Who are these all powerful backers? Hmm? Why haven't I met them?" Will was obviously up and pacing from the way the sound waxed and waned. "I'll tell you why. Because they don't exist. You need a long rest my friend. A loooong rest."

"Oh no. They're real. And you _have_ met them. Well, at least their representative here. He's an old friend of yours Will. You've known him since you were a kid. Don't tell me you don't remember Mr. Hong Shen?"

There was a long pause in the recording. Callie looked up from the computer screen, first at Blake and then at Ken. Both men were staring at the laptop, held spellbound by the unfolding story.

This was an unexpected development. Certainly they all knew of the connection between Will and Hong Shen but they had thought it a buried secret from the past. It was now clear that the connection was far more contemporary.

After several moments Will's voice came from the speakers. "Hong, what does Hong have to do with this? He's a two bit gangster. He doesn't represent anyone but himself." Derision and disbelief twined together in his voice.

A soft chuckle was heard as Micah continued. " _Mr_. Hong," he put reverential emphasis on the word 'mister', "is the West Coast representative for a very large, very powerful consortium of .... shall we say, international businessmen? You might describe him as their warlord or viceroy here. It was he who first proposed you as the political torchbearer for their larger ambitions."

There was a mewling protest in Will's voice. "But I haven't had anything to do with Hong for years now. He's part of my past. And a part I've worked hard to leave behind."

Then Will's voice sharpened with suspicion. "Who is he supposed to represent here? And what's your connection with them?"

The reverence deepened in Micah's voice. "Mr. Hong represents some very powerful friends and, shall we say, family members in Shanghai. They are looking to expand their control over American markets for their goods and services. You, my dear Will, are to be their voice on the National stage. Mr. Hong has watched your progress with great interest. And, now that his associates in Asia have agreed to back his plan, well, you can see how he is honor bound to see it through to a successful conclusion."

"And your connection to these people is, what?"

Micah's voice became more relaxed, almost casual. "Well, I'm sort of a shepherd and all around problem solver. I'm here to make sure that things stay on track and that any potential problems are dealt with, discretely of course, so that the goal is reached."

"So what do you do Micah? I mean, do you bribe reporters, grease palms, what? What exactly do you do? I just want to know before I fire you."

Alexander laughed. It was a laugh of knowing menace. "Yes, I grease palms and all that but I also deal with little problems that threaten to become big ones. I even protect you from your own stupidity."

In the pause that followed, Callie, Blake and Ken could imagine the questioning look Will Sampson must have had on his face. Micah's voice continued, this time harder, more demanding.

"For example, I took care of your little blackmailer. And I even did you a favor in the process."

Shock and recognition echoed in Will's question. "What do you mean you took care of my 'little blackmailer?"

"Why, Trish Martins of course. She was becoming quite a problem, wasn't she? I mean, who knew she could dig around and come up with all that information about you trading in illegal animal parts? She was very resourceful. Too bad she wouldn't take my offer of employment. She would have been quite valuable to us. But instead the little bitch said she was turning over a new leaf. She was going straight."

Blake heard Callie inhale sharply. When she let the breath out, small half sobs peppered it as she fought for self control.

Derisive laughter flowed out of the speaker. "Can you believe it? She actually _wanted_ to be a chef? Talk about a waste of talent."

"So you........" Will's voice was tinged with shock and regret.

"Yes, I silenced her. Permanently. But you have to admit, I did you two favors rather than just one. I know how you hate the Farmingtons. You've never made any secret of that. And, Blake Farmington had offended our patrons anyway so I framed him for her murder. You see how efficient I am? Solved the problem and provided revenge for both you and our employers as well. I think I deserve extra points for that, don't you?"

Blake and Callie's eyes met. Blake's deep blue eyes softened with sympathy at the brutal details, the cavalier way that Micah described snuffing out Trish's life. He placed a strong, steadying arm around Callie's shoulder, drawing her tenderly to his powerful chest. She rested her head against it, hearing his heartbeat, a constant, strong reassurance that he would love and care for her.

Blake shot a quick glance at Ken who had produced a notebook from his jacket pocket. Ken was writing furiously. _Can't expect a leopard to change his spots._ Blake thought.

"I never .... I wouldn't ......" Will's voice held a trace of horror and disbelief. Suddenly his voice became furious. "Why the hell didn't you just pay her off? She didn't have to die!"

Micah sounded a little confused. "Pay her off? You can never pay people like her off. Once they know a secret, they can always use it to cause trouble. Our employers have an entire division of their business that deals specifically with that kind of activity. The difference is that, as a business, we can't be silenced as easily as an independent operator. You see, if she came to work for us, she would be part of the team. Subject to the rules and controls that govern how business is done. As an outsider, well, frankly she couldn't be trusted."

"You're a maniac. Do you hear yourself? It's not business. It's crime. Organized, international crime. I made a mistake in my youth. I let desperation combine with ignorance to get caught up in something, something wrong. But I changed. And maybe Trish Martins could change too. But you didn't let her have the chance."

Will's voice was now shaking with righteous indignation. "Well, I'm not going to be part of it. Do you hear me? I don't care if I never get to Congress but if I do, it'll be because of good people, decent people, not criminals."

The sound of Will picking up the telephone on the desk could be heard. "I'm not only firing you Micah, I'm going to see you in prison for murder."

Angry footsteps sounded on the recording. There was the sound of men fighting. The scuffle was brief but filled with grunts and angry words. Abruptly it ended with the explosion of a gunshot and the sound of Will Sampson falling to the floor.

Some furtive activity could be heard on the recording and then, in the distance, a door closed.

Callie pushed the stop button. They all looked at each other for a moment. Ken broke the silence as he flipped his notebook closed. "Well old buddy, that pretty much lets you off the hook."

He paused, watching Callie and Blake as they embraced. He was aware of the tension that had been relieved. Nevertheless, his reporter's need for secure sources of information prompted him to break the hush of the tableau.

"You know, I'd really like to have a copy of that recording." He looked at Blake. "And old man Jamison could use one as well. No doubt the cops will clear you once they hear that, but having a copy will make it a sure thing."

Blake nodded. Ken was right, plus it would be easier for the corporate lawyers to deal with any public relations fallout if they knew what had been said. "You're right."

Callie rose slowly from the office chair. "I know Will keeps his office supplies over here. It used to be a walk-in closet but he converted it to a supply and copier area when he made this his office."

Blake sat in the chair that Callie had vacated. "I suppose we should call the cops now."

Ken watched him as he picked up the phone. Neither man paid any attention to Callie as she crossed the floor to the wall opposite the desk.

She twisted the door knob and looked over her shoulder. "I'll make a few copies, just as insurance."

She didn't see the arm shoot out of the space between the door and the jamb. Instead she felt its iron grip as it spun her around and encircled her vulnerable neck. A shriek of alarm escaped her before it was choked off.
CHAPTER 46

Alvin Baines approached the candidate's front door at an easy pace. He was thinking of how to best break the news of Susan Fields' death and then, as quickly and discretely as possible get to his questions about her role in the Sampson campaign.

It wasn't until he was but a few feet away that he noticed the door standing slightly ajar. His relaxed manner transformed immediately into alert vigilance. As he mounted the two steps to the entry way a shriek of alarm escaped the house. It was immediately followed by a resonant male voice shouting 'Callie!'

Baines' first instinct was to shout 'Police!' and burst through the door. But training and experience had taught him that kind of thing only worked on television. Instead, he retreated a few steps so that he was sheltered by a large shrub. Removing his portable radio from his inside coat pocket he called for backup assistance. Before connecting the earpiece to it, he informed the dispatcher that he would be inside the residence, reconnoitering.

_No sense being a friendly fire casualty._ He wanted to be sure that the uniformed officers knew that a detective was inside.

Baines eased the heavy door open. He slid through it noiselessly; his drawn gun was in the combat safety position, pointed forward and slightly toward the floor. From down the hallway to the right he could hear angry voices. As he approached, he noticed an auburn haired woman standing partway in his view. A man's arm encircled her throat. Baines eased himself into a small niche that was part of a deep doorway into a room. He could see the woman more clearly now. She was clearly frightened but she didn't look like she was falling apart.

From behind her the voice of her captor spoke. Desperation and strain strained his reedy voice.

"Stay back Farmington. Just stay back. I'll shoot her, so help me I will."

_Farmington! What the hell is Blake Farmington doing here?_ Baines shifted his weight carefully, seeking to improve his balance in case he needed to rush forward.

The deep resonant voice replied calmly. "It's okay Alexander. I'm not interested in you. I just want you to let the girl go."

A shuffling sound came from inside. Suddenly a gun materialized, pointed away from the woman and across the room.

"Hey you! Get behind the desk too." The gun shook menacingly with a small sweeping motion as the gunman indicated where he wanted the fourth person in the room to go.

A softer, male voice replied, "It's okay Micah. It's okay. I'm going. Just don't hurt her. We can work this out." Footsteps moved slowly inside the room.

"There's nothing to work out, except how I'm going to get you take the rap for killing Susan and Will too."

Baines' mind whirred. Farmington had called the gunman Alexander. The other man in the room had called him Micah. _Micah Alexander was Will Sampson's campaign manager. What was he doing holding some woman hostage and talking about have Farmington take the rap for another murder?_

Baines cautiously moved his head a little closer to the corner in order to better hear the conversation.

The rumbling of Blake's voice was like distant thunder, soft yet menacing. "Look, Micah .... you want to get out of here and that's fine with me. Go ahead. Go. Just leave the girl alone. She's nothing to you. Trust me; I've been on the run with her. She's a pain in the ass. More trouble than she's worth as a hostage."

"Nice try Farmington but it won't work. I'm in a bind here but you can help me out. See, my employers aren't going to be thrilled that Will there is dead. Oh, they'll get over Susan Fields alright but they had great hopes for Willie boy. You heard the recording. But, if _you_ killed him and then wiped out his beloved fiancée to be and the reporter who was interviewing the happy couple; now, they'd buy that.

The rumbling voice changed, moderated. Blake was struggling to sound reasonable. "Think about it Micah. Who's going to believe that I killed Sampson, Callie, and Ken here? I'm not a certifiable whack job so why would I suddenly become a mass murderer? Sooner or later the cops are going to come after you."

"Hey, I don't give two hoots about the cops. I'm just worried about my employers. And, once you're all dead and the recording is erased, I'm home and dry with them. They won't have any version of what happened here except mine. You see, sweet Callie here was your hostage. And then, you fell for her. So, when she escaped you came after her. Now, she returned to her beloved boyfriend, the upright, pillar of the community, candidate there. And you, in a jealous rage, burst in here. There was a fight, you overpowered Will, took his gun and then wiped out all the witnesses."

Baines saw Micah lean over and plant a very unwelcome kiss on Callie's cheek. "By the way doll, thanks for noticing that I was being recorded. I might have missed that and things wouldn't be so rosy if I did."

The look of loathing on Callie's face left little doubt about her feelings about Micah kissing her. Her skin felt soiled where his lips had touched her cheek. He grinned maliciously at Blake. "I'm guessing by the look on your face you really did fall for her, didn't you? See, it all hangs together." Gloating laughter bubbled up from Micah's chest.

Baines couldn't see Blake but he could imagine the helpless rage he must be feeling.

Rage seethed in Blake's voice. Baines could almost feel it radiating out of the room. "I only wish we could settle this man to man Alexander. I'd show you just how long it can take to die."

"Yeah, but I'm holding all the cards and I promise you, you'll take the longest to die Farmington. But you will die. Long before any help can get here."

Baines was surprised to hear Blake's voice change from anger to grudging resignation. "You are holding all the cards, just like those guys at the park."

Baines also heard something else. Something that Blake must have heard too. A roaring car engine suddenly stopped amid a squeal of tires on pavement. The noise was unmistakably on the street, immediately in front of the house.

What happened next was a blur. Baines kept his attention focused on Micah Alexander, despite the distractions outside. But Micah released his grip around Callie's throat ever so slightly. He peered past her down the hall.

He didn't see Baines concealed in the alcove.

With one fluid motion, Callie's arms rose above her head and she slipped like water over a spillway out of Micah's grip.

Micah refocused his attention on her, ignoring the sound of the heavy planked front door slamming open. As he reached down to grab Callie by the hair he grunted with pain.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a knife handle protruded from his chest, right next to the arm holding the gun.

Micah dropped the pistol, gripped the knife handle and spun slowly away from Callie. His face was a vision of hatred and pain.

Almost instantly, Baines was around the corner and moving toward the office.

His shout of 'POLICE' did not prevent Blake from rushing across the room and hitting Micah's collarbone on the unwounded side with a powerful overhand blow. The bone cracked with a loud sound and Micah cried out in renewed, redoubled pain. He slumped to the floor with both arms disabled.

Blake stood over Micah, a looming, ominous figure of rage. Baines could see at once that he was fighting to control his impulse to continue pummeling Micah. He understood the urge. It was clear that Blake was protecting someone he loved, and loved deeply.

Touching Blake lightly on the shoulder brought him about with unbelievable speed. Blake knew that Micah was not a threat with both arms disabled. He couldn't get up from the floor let alone handle a weapon.

His arm was cocked back; his massive fist looked like a huge steel piston ready to slam home into Baines' face. But it' didn't move. Blake trembled as he exerted every ounce of will to not lash out. There was a hiss of menace before Baines heard, "You'd better really be a cop."

Callie rose from the floor and encircled Blake with her arms. At the same time, Ken's quiet voice came from across the room reassuring him. "He is Blake. It's detective Baines. I know him. He's a straight shooter."

Blake lowered his fist and curled Callie to him protectively. "I thought I might lose you just then." His voice thrummed with suppressed fear for her.

He kissed her fiercely, possessively. "But you're my smart girl, aren't you?"

She kissed him back with equal fervor. "I never doubted that you would be able to deal with Micah."

She noticed the questioning look on Detective Baines' face.

She gave him a charming smile before explaining. "Blake mentioned the men in the park. I knew he wanted me to drop away from Micah like I did then. I knew he would take care of things."

"Like I said, smart girl." Blake embraced her again. He stroked her hair, letting it run between his fingers.

"Well, whatever it was it was damned impressive." Baines' holstered his pistol. By now the room was awash in activity. The two officers who burst in and distracted Micah were joined by others. Someone was calling for an ambulance as another officer applied a bandage from a first aid kit to the knife wound in Micah's shoulder.

Baines gently took Blake's elbow in his cupped hand. "Let's step over here out of the way."

He led them back to the desk where Ken stood. Ken moved aside to allow Callie to sit in the leather office chair.

"So, what's this recording you were talking about?"
CHAPTER 47

The hours spent at the police department were agonizingly long. Blake had not thought it would take so much time to sort things out. After all, Baines had heard Micah confess to killing Susan Fields and Will. He also had the recorded confession about his killing Trish. It should have been a fairly simple process but, as with all bureaucracies, the wheels ground exceedingly slowly.

Blake did have the forethought to contact Malcolm Jamison before they were taken to the Bellevue Police Department. He also had Jamison arrange for a colleague to represent Callie's interests.

Callie was put out that Blake had insisted she wait for the lawyer to arrive before speaking to anyone at the police department. She couldn't understand why she might need a lawyer. As she saw it, she was blameless. There was not time to explain things since Baines didn't want them speaking together, comparing notes, and coordinating their stories until he was sure that they were blameless in Trish's murder as well as Will's.

In the end, it was Ken who got her to see that there were very good reasons for having someone available to advise her. With Micah's confession it had never occurred to her that she might still be charged with assisting in a jail break, abetting a fugitive, breaking into Farmington's corporate offices, identity theft, and probably several other charges as well.

After countless retellings of their stories and endless interruptions as the detectives met separately to compare notes, they were finally released.

There were some tense moments when the questions of Blake's escaping from jail and being a fugitive were raised. In the end it was decided that since he had been framed for a crime he didn't commit and since he hadn't actually been arrested but only detained for questioning, there was no real basis for charging him.

Jamison and Callie's attorney had said their goodbyes inside. Ken had been released much earlier. He left a message that he would catch up with them later. As they exited the glass front door of the Bellevue Police building together, they noticed the sun had arced much further West on its journey beyond the Olympic Mountains.

Suddenly, Callie blushed. "Excuse me!"

Blake looked at her, his confusion evident on his tired face. "For what?"

"I was sure you must have heard my stomach growl." The rosy color of her cheeks deepened a bit more.

"Now that you mention it, I'm famished as well." He reached out and took both of her hands. A look of absolute seriousness fixed his face. "I have something to ask you. Now I know our relationship is still new and this is really risky."

After all they had been through Callie couldn't imagine what could be more risky. She waited, holding her breath.

Blake studied her face carefully. "How do you feel about sushi?"

She burst into uncontrollable giggles as she nuzzled into his broad chest. "It has to be really fresh." came out between fits of laughter.

Ken Robbins and his wife entered the restaurant door and peered over the crowd. One of the kimono dressed waiters was approaching quickly. Just as she arrived he spotted Blake and Callie in a corner booth near the rear. He smiled and waved. The young woman holding the menus turned to see Blake's return greeting. Smiling, she bowed and turned to guide Ken and Carol to their companions.

Blake rose from his chair as they arrived. He shook hands with Ken and embraced Carol. Smiling, he turned and gestured to where Callie sat. "Allow me to do the introductions, Carol Yamaguchi-Robbins, Callie ..." His voice trailed off.

"You're not telling me that you don't remember her last name?" Ken cocked an eyebrow at Blake." And after all you kids have been through too."

Carol looked mildly embarrassed for Blake.

Blake shuffled nervously, trying to think of how he could salvage this situation. "No, it's not that I don't remember her name." He sounded less defensive than he felt but it still bad enough to be notice.

It wasn't getting any better. Now he had to make the horrible admission. "It's that I ...."

He never got to complete his confession that he never knew Callie's last name. "He's trying to tell you that it will be Farmington in a couple of days. Actually, if I'm accurate it will be Adams-Farmington." Callie rose and shook hands with Carol.

The look of surprise on Ken's face wiped away any other ribbing he was planning to give Blake. "Well, that was a fast bit of work." He pulled out a chair for Carol and they sat down at the table.

Blake offered them warm saki. "It's not champagne but it's mighty tasty." He poured the warm aromatic wine into the rough clay cups.

Carol raised her cup, smelling the fruity hot wine. "To the happy couple."

Ken echoed her sentiment as Callie and Blake blushed. The wine traced paths of warm well being into the core of them all.

Struggling to make conversation, Carol asked, "So how did you two meet?"

Blake took another sip of saki, trying to think of an easy way to describe the events of the past week.

With an impish grin, Callie again took the lead. "I was in Morriston last week doing a demo of my coffee service at the Inn. When I came out, there he was. Trying to steal my car."

Carol choked briefly on the sip of saki she was swallowing. She managed to recover herself amid looks of concern from their fellow diners.

Callie felt bad about Carol's choking but she couldn't resist the finish line. "It was love at first sight."

Carol shot a hard, questioning glare at Blake. He raised his hand defensively. "That's not exactly true. I was borrowing her car. But it is true that it was love at first sight."

He took Callie's hand and gently kissed her palm. "And at every sight since then."

Callie smiled sweetly at him. "True, every sight since then but, honey, I believe in honesty. When you borrow something without the owner knowing about it, they call that stealing. Just because I didn't press charges......"

They all erupted in laughter. More saki was poured and another toast to friends and love was made.

Over dinner, the conversation turned to the events of the past week. Carol was brought up to speed on what had happened. On several occasions she looked admiringly at Callie as Blake told of how she had eluded her would be abductors and dealt with the trials of rough living. Eventually, it was mentioned that Liz had helped discover Trish's online diary.

Ken shifted abruptly in his chair and interrupted the story being told. "Speaking of Liz, I've got to thank you."

All three of his companions stared at him, Carol with the most concern. "Why?" was all she asked.

"That girl is a positive research genius. I don't know how she did it but the information she turned up is going to win me a Pulitzer."

Callie smiled. "I've always said, if you want to know about something or someone you only have to ask Liz. But, I think it's only fair to warn you Ken, she's not always a hundred percent on her analysis. Her facts, absolutely but her analysis of them can be off at times."

Ken looked briefly concerned. "What do you mean? When has she been wrong?"

Callie picked at the ginger remaining on her plate. Licking her fingers she looked at Blake. "Well, her analysis of a certain corporate executive and his reliability in relationships was _way_ off the mark."

Blake made a 'hurt' face. "You had her check me out?"

"Didn't need to. Liz is very protective of her friends. I'm sure she was hacking into databases about you the first time I said that I thought you were cute." She sipped at her green tea. "She told me you were just a playboy and weren't the settling kind."

Blake leaned over and kissed her softly. "Shows you that even really smart people can be wrong at times."

Callie looked at Ken. "You said she was going to help you get a Pulitzer. What did she turn up?"

Ken leaned back with exaggerated ease. He locked his fingers behind his head. "Wellllll, it seems that Micah was telling the truth. Sampson's campaign was being funded by a crime family in Shanghai."

Cutting his gaze toward Blake he said, "The same folks you ran afoul of on that expansion deal you've been working on. It seems that they held a grudge and, when Trish started blackmailing their boy politician, they saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."

Blake grunted and nodded. "Imagine?"

"Yep old buddy, it was their idea to frame you for Trish's murder. Figured that you put one of theirs in the clink over there so turn about was fair play. I think Micah was just trying to shock Sampson back into line with that 'I did you a favor' speech of his." Ken rocked forward. "Anyway, Liz found a money trail, transactions, even e-mails between the gang overseas and Susan Fields. She forwarded the information on to the authorities for action. All in all, pretty damning stuff."

Callie looked at Ken with admiration. "That's great!"

Ken made a small show of bravado, kind of the 'aw shucks' gesture. "Yep. And Kleinmann insisted that we get the exclusive on the story. You see, he's a dedicated newspaperman but he also is a patriot. He insisted that we turn everything over to the Justice Department. They are going to be pursuing international action so we're going to see these creeps shut down both here and in Asia. Yes sir, that Liz is a genius."

Callie nodded to Carol and they both gave Ken what he had come to know as 'the look'. He raised his hands, whether in surrender or defensively Blake couldn't be sure. "Hey, she's getting credit and a share of the prize. Don't worry. Plus, she's considering my offer to become part of the investigative team at the paper."

Ken became more serious. He leaned his chin on his fists. "Callie, why do you suppose that Will never reported you as a missing person? We know that he had people out looking for you, and probably Blake as well. But why that route? Why not the cops?"

Callie pondered the question for the first time. She had always assumed that she wasn't as important to Will as he made out. Or maybe that he was too distracted by the campaign. Really, she hadn't cared until now but Ken's question made her think.

"I suppose he was afraid that I had rejected him and was just avoiding him. He always came across as this 'tough man of action' kind of guy. That was the image they crafted for him. Really, he was very insecure. I think that's why he always had to be in control. Anyway, if I had blown him off and he made a report, when the cops found me it would all come out. I don't think he could chance the public humiliation of offering to marry a nobody and having her reject him."

Blake glared at her. "Don't ever say that again."

Callie was surprised by the ferocity of his admonition. "Say what?"

He took her hand possessively. "That you're a nobody. That's not true. You are amazing. Not one person in a thousand could have blossomed like you did under those terrible circumstances. You're brave, smart, and very, very wonderful. Those are not the characteristics of a nobody."

Carol leaned over and whispered in Ken's ear. "He's really got it bad, doesn't he?"

Ken kissed her on the cheek. "Yep. And I'm glad for both of them."

Callie's eyes misted up a bit. She gently blotted the corners with her napkin and took a deep breath. "Anyway, I don't think he could have taken the public humiliation of being rejected," she smiled at Blake, "so instead of the cops, he got his staff to hire private inquiry agents."

Ken nodded. "And, of course, they hired in house thugs. Or at least reliable contractors. Makes sense."

Blake put an end to the discussion. He neatly folded his napkin and slid the wooden chopsticks back into their paper sleeve. "Anyway, all's well that ends well as the Bard said. And I couldn't be happier with the results."

The couples lingered some short while, chatting about ordinary things. Finally, by mutual consent, they rose and made their way out of the restaurant. Outside, the evening was soft and cool as it often was in the Pacific Northwest. Carol and Ken said their goodbyes and made their way to their car. Blake and Callie strolled hand in hand to Callie's little wagon which was parked in the opposite direction.

She unlocked the doors and, standing on the sidewalk looked seductively at Blake. "I think this is the point where one of us asks, 'my place or yours?' isn't it?"

Without hesitating, Blake responded, "Mine. It's closer."

Callie trailed her fingers teasingly over his broad chest and down to burgeoning sign of his arousal. "Good, I don't think I could wait long enough to get to mine."

Their kiss warmed the air around them. They knew that the evening was young and there would be a long slow night of lovemaking before them. They would think about everything else in the morning.
EPILOGUE

The courtyard was alive with light. Giant iron sconces were set in the ground and generous fires blazed in each one. The torches set on poles lined the walkway to the overhanging awning. All was in readiness as the sleek black barouche drawn by a matched team of grays pulled up.

Blake stepped forward and seized the brass door handle. The elegantly attired woman stood and accepted his hand. She daintily stepped down onto the footpad and then to the red carpet. Callie came forward and made a curtsey. "Welcome Madam Governor. We are so pleased that you could accept our invitation."

The governor extended her hand for Callie to shake it. "I wouldn't have missed it. I don't know which was more tempting, to 'experience the fine cuisine of the old west' as the invitation said, or to meet the woman who could get Blake Farmington to the altar again."

Callie flushed. The governor's escort had alighted and unobtrusively joined her. He was elegantly dressed and moved with the practiced grace of the spouse of a dignitary. "Now my dear, let's not embarrass our hostess." He cut a knowing look at Blake and winked almost imperceptibly. "Or our host."

The governor beamed one of her most winning smiles and laughed softly. "Henry, Blake knows I only wish him the best, in both his personal and business lives."

The governor and her husband swept elegantly into the restaurant whose architecture seemed to be a cross between a long house and trading post.

Other guests greeted the governor on her way in. Blake moved to Callie's side. "Well, I think you've made a good first impression."

He nodded toward the State's first couple. "Henry usually doesn't say anything. And for him to tease his wife like that in public. Well, it's a mark of great favor."

She hugged his arm momentarily. "I was so worried they wouldn't come."

"Nonsense, she's a history buff, an epicure, and she's not about to pass up a good photo op." Blake offered Callie his arm and they walked inside to the reception and waiting area. The interior was all warm wood tones with stone flagging on the floor. It looked rustic but elegant. On the overhanging balcony, a quartet played softly. The hum of conversation and mingling couples competed with the murmur of the music.

Barry disengaged himself from a pair of guests and made his way over to Blake and Callie. "I think things are going well tonight." He smiled and nodded to another guest who raised his glass in salute.

"Yes, they are. You've done a great job getting things organized and running Barry." Blake smiled warmly at him.

"Well, this isn't what I imagined last year when Callie said I might be managing a bistro for her." He motioned to one of the wait staff. As the young man came over, Barry discretely whispered that he should get another tray or two of champagne circulating. The waiter nodded and made his way quickly but unobtrusively toward the bar.

Callie smiled approvingly. She placed a hand gently on Barry's forearm. "But that's what Blake meant. You have a natural talent for making sure that every guest has a wonderful time."

"Well I really appreciate the opportunity." Barry cast a critical eye toward the hors d'oeuvre table. "Excuse me would you? I need a word with chef."

He moved off in the direction of the kitchen, chatting and visiting ever so briefly with the guests who were mingling in the center of the room.

Callie turned to Blake, her eyes beaming. He admired how her skin glowed in the warm light. The modern cut of her emerald green gown flattered her figure and brought out the color of her eyes. The shimmering silk bodice was set off by the panels of antique Flemish lace which swept elegantly from her waist toward the hem. When she moved, her perfume rose to him in tantalizing tendrils so faint that he almost missed them. He was unreservedly happy and content.

Her voice quietly teased him out of his reverie. "I wanted to thank you for that." She pointed to the discrete brass plaque mounted on the wall behind the reception podium.

It read, _In loving memory of Trish Martins. Trailblazer and chef who was taken too soon while on the path to the future._

"It's a beautiful sentiment. I'm sure she would have loved to be here tonight." Her eyes misted for just a moment.

"Like all of us, Trish had her faults. But unlike most of us, she had the courage to make a change. Most of all, like her sister, she had what it takes to strike out in a new direction." He took Callie's hand and kissed it.

He still couldn't believe that they had been married almost a year. It seemed like a few weeks at most and yet so much had changed. Blake had finished up the Asian expansion project; his sister Beverly had taken over the reins of the company and was making it even more successful than their father had; and here he was, with the woman he loved, opening his dream restaurant.

From behind them they heard a chiding voice. "Can't the two of you put it on hold for one night?"

They turned to find Ken and Carol standing behind them. Ken was beaming proudly at his bon mot and Carol was trying to keep from blushing at his hijinks.

"Nope. And we're going to carry on like this all night so you might as well get used to it." Blake noticed the couple standing with Ken and Carol. He extended his hand to the man.

"Leslie Crawford, isn't it?" The food critic took Blake's hand and shook it warmly.

"So nice of you to recognize me Mr. Farmington. May I introduce my wife, Ellen?"

"A pleasure Ellen." He took her hand and saluted it as if they were in some period drama.

Ellen smiled warmly. "It's simply lovely Mr. Farmington. And I assure you, I shall make sure that Leslie's review reflects that." She smiled first at Blake and then at her husband.

"Please, it's Blake. Except for the dignitaries here tonight, we're all pretty informal." He introduced Callie to the Crawfords and they chatted among themselves for a bit.

As they moved into the restaurant Leslie Crawford took Blake aside. "You know, despite what Ellen said, I have a duty to be objective." He did not sound apologetic.

Blake smiled confidently. "Leslie, I would not have it any other way. I don't play favorites and I believe in honest, constructive criticism. How else can we find what we've overlooked and correct it?"

The restaurant critic studied Blake's face for a moment. "You know, I believe you mean that."

Blake beamed at him. "You can bank on it. Now, please, I know you're working but do enjoy yourselves as well."

The evening went off without any major hitches and all of the guests seemed to enjoy the gala opening. As the last guests left, Barry closed the door and latched it. "All in all, not bad." He sounded exhausted.

"I'd say a triumph." Blake offered coffee to Barry and Callie.

"What a sensible man you are. Not champagne but coffee." She sipped it and smiled. "And great coffee too."

"Well, you made it pretty clear that we wouldn't be serving cowboy coffee."

She snorted a laugh and choked on the sip she had just taken. Barry hurried to her with a fresh linen napkin from behind the podium.

"You monster." She managed to choke out.

Blake smiled at her. "I was thinking, now that the opening is past and, since Barry really doesn't need us under foot all the time, I thought we might head up to the retreat next week."

Taking his cue, Barry headed off toward the kitchen to have a final word with the staff before meeting Liz. He waved dismissively at them as he went.

Having recovered herself, Callie favored Blake with a suggestive smile. "Planning a rendezvous are you?"

He took her in his arms saying, "Yes but only for two." He kissed her warmly. She melted into his warm hard body, entwining her arms and, indeed, her soul with his.

"I'd go anywhere, as long as you're there." She nuzzled into his broad chest.

He reached over and turned out the house lights. His resonant voice purred softly. "Well, I'd never go anywhere without you."

About the Author

Michelle Annalisa Scott is a pseudonym for a spousal writing team that creates extraordinary stories of adventure and romance. Their philosophy is summed up in their tag line, "We've seen reality and it's not for us!"

Also known as MA Scott, the pair live in rural Western Washington on a 'small freehold' nestled among towering trees.

Northwest Rendezvous is their first novel. They are currently working on a new Steampunk series set in an alternate history where the British Empire confronts the combined threats of a powerful, worldwide Napoleonic realm; a Russian Empire struggling to break free of it geographic constraints; and the lingering remnants of an otherworldly invasion brought about by their own folly.

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