Distant Memory (18 page)

That didn’t make sense. If she understood correctly, Nick and his family had lived here for some years before his parents passed away and his sister had moved. Yet the house looked unlived in.

“Ready to eat?” Nick asked as she approached the kitchen again.

Her stomach growled. The food smelled delicious. “Yes, I’m actually hungry for the first time today.”

“I hope you like it. There’s something about huevos rancheros that hits the spot. If you’ll open the back door, we’ll eat outside. We can watch the tide come in.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Lisa said. A few minutes later they were seated on the redwood deck at the rear of the house. The sun, a disk of golden orange, was descending into the darkening sea and pulling the shadow of night behind it. Its waning light painted a ribbon of glittering ivory along the surface of the ocean. The air was heavily laced with the smell of brine. White and gray gulls flew lazily in the near-windless evening.

“I hope you don’t mind water to drink,” Nick said. “I really need to get to the store. Living alone, I eat out all the time.”

“At those fancy restaurants you took me to?” Lisa quipped.

He laughed. “If it weren’t for bachelors like me, there would be no fast-food industry. We’re a national treasure.”

“I bet,” she said, taking a bite of the dinner. The sauce was slightly sweet, the eggs hot, and the beans tangy. It tasted magnificent and she said so.

“Thanks. You should taste my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Julia Child has been pestering me for the recipe, but I won’t give it up.”

Lisa laughed lightly, then turned her attention back to the solacing
scene before her. For the first time since awakening, she felt a measure of peace. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“I’ve never gotten used to it, and I hope I never do. After being on the road for several days I like to sit out here and read.”

“You like to read?” Lisa said between bites. She was truly hungry, and her stomach was impatient for more food. “I didn’t see any books lying around.”

“I send them to my sister when I’m done. I’m not much of a collector. What about you? Do you think you like to read?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. If I do, I’d probably keep them all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know, just a gut feeling. That’s all I have to go by—gut feelings.”

“It’s a start. Be patient with yourself.”

“What’s that?” Lisa asked, pointing behind Nick. A mark, like a giant, swelling scar, rose from the northern horizon and pushed its way up into the darkening sky. The trail, a long white stream, seemed to effervesce in the sky.

Nick turned and studied the streak. “Vandenberg,” he said flatly. “Missile launch.”

“Vandenberg?”

“Vandenberg Air Force Base,” he explained. “It’s north of Santa Barbara, just west of Lompoc. The air force runs missile tests there and also launches satellites into space.”

Lisa’s stomach knotted into a tight fist and her heart began to pound.

Nick was still staring at the unexpected light show and didn’t notice. “The contrail will spread out pretty soon and make quite a display. The setting sun shines through the frozen fuel particles, making a rainbow effect. It’s pretty. You’ll like it.”

When he pulled his chair around to better view the sight, he said, “What’s the matter? You look sick.”

She didn’t speak.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” Nick said softly. “They send up a missile every now and then. People around here see them all the time.”

His words were ringing like large brass bells warning of a pending crisis.
Missile. Rocket. Launch. Satellite. Vandenberg
. Undefined terror swirled in her like a hurricane. What was it about what she was seeing? About the words she had heard?

“Lisa?”

The matter was important, threatening, fearful, crucial, but none of the pieces fit together.

“Lisa, talk to me.”

Something about the growing vapor trail, something about the launch, something about Vandenberg
.

“Lisa, look at me. Look at me now.” Nick grabbed her shoulders. “Come on, Lisa, look at me.” She turned her gaze from the scar in the sky to his face. “That’s a girl. It’s all right. Do you hear me? It’s all right. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

“But—”

“It’s going to be all right.”

Hot tears flooded her eyes. Abysmal sorrow. Failure. “I’ve failed.”

“What?” Nick asked with surprise. “What do you mean you failed?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I failed.”

“Failed at what?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “I don’t know!” She shot out of her seat.

“Okay, okay,” he said, taking a step back. “Settle down. I’m just trying to help.”

“I’ve failed,” she repeated loudly. “I can feel it. I was supposed to do something, something important.” Her tears were no longer tears of fear or apprehension but of anger.

“Lisa,” he said in a low voice. “Whatever you should have done doesn’t matter now. You’re here and you’re safe. We can figure the rest out later, but first you must be calm.”

“I can’t be calm,” she shot back. “I can’t.”

Nick stepped forward and took her in his arms. At first she started to push away, but he pulled her back. “You’re not alone, Lisa. I’m here.” Despite the turbulence that raged within her, she felt herself soften in his arms. It felt good to be held, to know that she was not alone in whatever this was.

“I don’t know what to think—”

“Don’t think; just relax.”

A small sob erupted from her lips.

“Let it go, Lisa. Get it out so that we can face this thing.”

Another sob. Then another. As her tears grew hotter, her terror subsided. For the second time since entering Nick’s home, Lisa poured out her pent-up emotions.

Lisa dissolved into the arms of a man she had known for less than a day, and he stood ramrod straight and as unmoving as a statue, letting her cry until she could cry no more. Then he said, “Let’s go inside.”

Gregory Moyer was too excited to sit in his plush office chair. Instead he stood before his desk watching on his computer monitor the rocket that carried his prize possession into outer space. A camera at Vandenberg followed the ascent of the rocket, keeping it in tight view. Moyer knew the optics that made such a detailed image were in themselves remarkable achievements and their details still top secret. But he didn’t care about the camera work. He cared only for the payload that was on the front end of that rocket—a payload that would increase the already substantial flow of money into the coffers of Moyer Communications.

Strange times required innovative approaches to business. During the Cold War, defense-department dollars were as easy to garner as falling autumn leaves. But the steady cutbacks on military expenditures had made the once abundant dollars more difficult to get. The competition
had grown more rigorous too. Several upstart companies piloted by young, aggressive techno-geniuses had threatened to supplant Moyer Communications’s position in the defense community. New sources of income had to be found; new uses for technology created. That meant new partnerships had to be forged. Moyer now dealt with more than congressmen, senators, and the DOD; he had new clients, many of whom made their homes on foreign soil. It had not been part of his initial plan, but plans had to be changed—especially if money and power were involved.

“Go,” he said, willing his might into the craft. “Go!”

The rocket continued its long climb, and each second of its ascent brought Moyer closer to success. Had anyone else been in the room, he would have seen a man completely composed, as if watching a simple news event. What the observer would not be able to see, however, was the churning apprehension that Moyer felt. At any instant a rubber ring could give way, a valve could open, or some other malfunction - could force the rocket off its course, necessitating that some nondescript little man in a room at Vandenberg Air Force Base push a button to abort the mission. The rocket would then explode into a million useless pieces and Moyer’s one-billion-dollar satellite would rain to the earth in fiery sparks. Such things happened more often than most people knew. There had been sufficient problems with the Titan 4 series of rockets for Moyer to insist that a Boeing Delta II be used to launch his prize. Still, there were no guarantees. Something could go wrong.

He feared that possibility—and he feared that woman on the run. That thought pulled his attention away from the launch. Three keystrokes later, he issued a command to the satellite that had so effectively located Blanchard’s truck. Bernard Cox, the young engineer who had found the truck, had transferred basic control to Moyer’s terminal. Moyer couldn’t access the sophisticated recognition software, but he - could direct the satellite’s line of sight and its zoom. He could also lock its tracking computer on Raymond Massey’s car, which now came into
view. Moyer could now not only speak with Massey by cell phone, but he could also watch his every move.

To Moyer, directing the satellite was like a video game he had seen some of the younger engineers play on their breaks. Except this was real. And the image of a man exiting the car was not the creation of a game designer. He was flesh and blood, McCullers, the killer Massey had hired. Moyer hoped that the man would work out—for his sake and for Massey’s. Failure could not be tolerated.

Massey watched McCullers walk casually down the street and disappear between two houses. Even though the killer was now out of sight, Massey knew exactly what the man was doing: entering through the side garage door to gain entrance to the house. With any luck, and assuming that McCullers didn’t mess up again, the two occupants would soon be dead with gunshot wounds to the head, and then the two men could be on their way—Massey to his job at Moyer Communications and McCullers to whatever rock he lived under.

McCullers was the variable in the formula. When Massey had hired him to find and to kill the woman, he had been led to believe that the man was the best in the country. He now had serious doubts about that assessment. Ideally, Massey knew, he should have gone with McCullers, helped in the killing, made sure that no mistakes were made. But that would be tempting fate. One oversight and a fingerprint or a track from his shoe could be left, or some piece of DNA evidence could be traced to him. And if it were traced to him, it would be traced to Moyer. He had to trust McCullers, even against his better judgment. At least the man had a taste for the work.

Massey took in a deep, impatient breath, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the car, and waited. This would be a long ten minutes.

Detective Hobbs studied the paper before him and frowned. It was a list of the homeowners in the area where they believed the runaway driver and trucker were staying. He had hoped to find the name of Nick Blanchard on the list, but he wasn’t surprised at its absence. He had already encountered a bogus license-plate number, an unassigned vehicle identification number, and had found no information whatsoever on a man named Nick Blanchard. It was all starting to sound like some kind of a spy movie.

“A whole lot of nothing,” Hobbs said to Tanner. Both men were back in the conference room, studying the results of the search. The county tax records had listed the owners of each house, but the information was useless.