Live and Let Love (20 page)

Good luck, baby.

When he was satisfied she was safe, he grumbled and forced himself to turn off the
laptop and think about something other than Willow. He was going to have to fix Aldo’s
walls. And jam the gun to make it look as if it hadn’t fired. Just in case Kennett
came back for it. Which Jack was sure he would try.

Well, good for him if he did. Jack was going to lace the damn thing with poison.

Jack took a look out the window. The sun was rising over the mountains to the east,
lighting up the world with a breathtaking sunrise. A herd of deer walked across one
of Aldo’s fields.

Damn deer.

It was hunting season. Too bad he didn’t have a license. He could go for a taste of
venison.

Jack grinned. He might not have a license to hunt deer, but he sure as hell had a
license to kill the Rooster. In fact, Jack had something even better—a direct order.

He returned to his newspaper, picked it up, and began to hum. As a kid, he’d made
all kinds of things out of newspaper—hats, boats, papier-mâché masks, and volcanoes.
As an adult spy, he knew exactly what he was going to make out of this one—a paper
crossbow. Yes, few people, even those in law enforcement, realized that an arrow fired
from a paper crossbow could be perfectly lethal.

And destroying the evidence, so easy! Burn the crossbow and presto, no weapon. It
was archery hunting season. And accidents did happen.…

*   *   *

Willow sat at her kitchen table with her laptop open, going over Con’s online presence
again, frustrated in her search to out Con as Jack. At least she’d sold out her caramel
yesterday and didn’t have to be in town manning her booth.

She grabbed her smartphone and studied the picture she’d secretly snapped of Con yesterday.

She saw a straight nose instead of a crooked one. Perfectly white teeth instead of
slightly imperfect ones. A slightly different shape to his cheekbones, more prominence.
And Jack’s eyes.
Jack’s.

Which all fit if he’d been blown up and had reconstructive surgery.

She needed help, big-time. Scientific help. She had to find out the truth before Con
left town and disappeared. Because if he really was Jack, he’d disappear without a
trace.

Willow needed a DNA collection kit. She could venture half an hour out into the neighboring
big city and get one. No big deal. But it wouldn’t do her a bit of good if Con left
town before she got the results. It would take three to ten business days at least;
that’s what all the Web sites said. And, of course, she needed that DNA report to
compare the sample she took from Con to.

None of the test kit sites mentioned anything about comparing their results to a findings
sheet. They all compared samples to samples.

She also needed a good bug-sweeping company. But none were open until Monday.

She closed her computer. It was almost eleven. The stores should be open by the time
she got there. She’d better grab the report and take it along so she could ask about
it when she bought the kit.

Now that she thought about it, she also had Jack’s hairbrush with several strands
of hair on it. That might work better. Maybe they could test that. But she was loathe
to part with even a strand of it. She hoped the report would suffice.

Of course, the CIA had Jack’s DNA on file. But she couldn’t have their lab run the
test. She’d never trust Emmett to tell her the truth. Especially since she suspected
him of concocting Jack’s death.

She slid off her chair and rushed to the bedroom, got on her knees, and pulled out
the memory box she’d made to remember Jack.

The box was slightly out of place, skewed. She didn’t remember leaving it like this.
Oh, well, she probably accidentally hit it with the vacuum or something.

She pulled the box out from beneath the bed, removed the lid, and carefully lifted
the folded flag, feeling, as always, the deep sense of loss. Beneath it was the report,
and then the little crystal dog collar that always made her tear up.

And then, her heart stopped. The coffee sleeve from the first time she met Jack sat
on top of everything else. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. This was becoming
its permanent position.

She always kept that sleeve at the bottom of the box.
Always.

Someone had been through her box.

Jack.

She swallowed hard and pawed through it, looking for Jack’s brush. Nothing. It was
gone. She took every item out one at a time. Jack’s brush had vanished.

She would never, ever have misplaced it.

She swallowed hard as a horrible suspicion dawned on her—the report she had was probably
bogus. That’s why whoever had been in her room hadn’t bothered to take it. The hair
on that brush, however, was Jack’s, undoubtedly Jack’s.

She pulled her own hair and resisted screaming. Jack’s beautiful dark hair was gone.
Her precious memento and her one true chance at Jack’s DNA, gone.

She sat on the bed, freaked out of her mind. She truthfully didn’t know whether to
feel more scared or more optimistic. Someone had taken that hair. Who even knew about
this box besides her and Spookie?

The only person with motive to take the hair was Con, if he was Jack. But how could
he know about it? She’d never mentioned it. But if he was a spy …

She had to think. Think, think, think!

She needed help, really needed help now. There was only one person she could trust
to help her. Well, actually two—her good friend Staci Fields and her husband, Drew.
Drew was a CIA agent and had been one of Jack’s best friends. Drew was with Jack on
that fateful mission when Jack was blown up. Drew had been injured, too. Just not
fatally.

Willow couldn’t believe Drew would have lied to her all this time. No, if Jack was
alive, Drew must not know. His wife, Staci, had been with him on the mission to the
city of smugglers and drug lords, Ciudad del Este, Paraguay.

Jack and Drew were assigned to bring down a dangerous drug cartel. At least, that’s
what Jack told her, all he could tell her. Willow had always been opposed to violence
and, unlike other wives, had never gone on one of Jack’s missions with him. Staci
had begged Drew to finally take her on a mission, so he took her to Paraguay.

Willow sighed. That mission had proved to be fateful for her friendship with Staci,
too.

Drew relented and finally agreed to take Staci with him, provided she stay in a separate
apartment from his and that they both keep her identity and their relationship a secret.
Somehow, Willow never did know how, the horrible drug lord Beto Bevilacqua discovered
that Staci was Drew’s wife, tracked her down, and tortured out of her information
about where Drew and Jack were going to be that fateful night.

The Bevil, as the Agency referred to Beto, sent his men out after Jack and Drew. The
drug lord’s men blew them up. Drew was badly injured. Jack was blown up into pieces,
many too small to recover. Staci blamed herself for what had happened, saying she’d
told the Bevil where to find Jack and Drew.

Willow sighed and shook her head. She believed in forgiveness and had never blamed
Staci. What was there to blame her for? For thugs torturing information out of her?
Staci had spent a week in the hospital herself. And then she’d separated from Drew
because of her guilt. They’d only recently reconciled.

Willow sighed again. Staci had apologized a dozen times, even though Willow asked
her to stop. Finally, they’d drifted apart. Willow realized it was because of Staci’s
guilt.

Jack, Drew, and a third friend, Kyle Harris, met as trainees at the CIA training facility
The Farm. All three men were from Seattle and became good friends. When they each
married, their wives became good friends, too. Kyle was dead, gone before Jack. Murdered
by terrorists in Afghanistan. Willow and Kyle’s widow, Mandy, kept in touch. But Willow
really missed Staci.

If Jack was alive and Drew could prove it, it would relieve Staci’s burden of guilt.
And Drew would want to know that his best friend lived; of course he would. Drew would
help Willow find out for sure, wouldn’t he? Maybe bend a few Agency rules? To get
his best friend back?

Because bend them he’d have to. Willow didn’t want NCS chief Emmett Nelson to get
wind of what she was up to. Not until she knew the truth about Con. She needed Drew’s
help if she was going to find out the truth.

She closed up the box, stuffed it back under the bed, grabbed her cell phone, and
auto dialed Staci.

“Staci, I think Jack’s still alive. He’s here in Orchard Bluff, pretending to be someone
else. I need your help.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“What?” Staci’s shock reverberated through the phone. “Let me get Drew. Skype me back
and the three of us will talk.”

Willow did as Staci asked, though she felt nervous, as if she was being watched. She
probably was, by whoever had been in her home and taken Jack’s hair.

When she got through to Staci again on Skype, Drew was sitting next to Staci, holding
her hand. In typical spy form, the camera was positioned so Willow couldn’t identify
where they were.

“I think I’m being watched.”

Drew interrupted her. “You definitely are. Someone’s installed CIA-grade keystroke-monitoring
software on your laptop. It’s probably nothing to worry about, just us making sure
you’re okay.

“I’ve disabled it remotely using an app I have. But I can’t sweep your house from
here. We’ll have to speak guardedly. And, of course, I’ll recommend a sweeping service.
You should get the house cleaned as soon as possible.”

Willow nodded. “I’m already planning on it.”

“Good.” He then gave her further instructions. “In the meantime, we’ll all need to
speak in low voices. Willow, pick up your laptop and walk around the house as we’re
speaking. Even in a thoroughly bugged house it’s impossible to place bugs so that
they cover every inch. When you’re walking around, anyone listening in will be likely
to lose bits of information from time to time. It’s the best we can do on the fly.”

“Got it.” Nervous as she was, she was eager to move around. Pacing was a good thing.
Willow picked up her laptop and began roaming. “We’re clear. I’m wandering. How do
you like the tour of the house? Do you like my new pillows?” Willow pointed her laptop
toward her pillow-covered sofa.

“Very nice.” Drew said, but he sounded less than enthused.

What was it with men? Why didn’t they appreciate a beautiful decorative pillow? Must
be something in their genetics.

“Willow,” Drew said softly, gently, when Willow turned the laptop screen back to focus
on her. “I know this anniversary is a hard time for you. It is for all of us. But
I saw Jack.…” He took a deep breath, as if it was difficult for him to talk about
it. “I saw Jack during the explosion. He couldn’t have survived the blast.”

Drew sounded genuine in his grief and belief. But Willow was not going to budge. She
knew what she knew—Con was Jack. She had to convince Drew to at least consider the
possibility.

“I know, Drew. I believe you saw what you saw. But you have to believe
me.
I know my husband. And this guy in Orchard Bluff who calls himself Con, he’s very
likely Jack.” It was hard to keep from speaking loudly when she was so excited and
emphatic about the possibility. She had to force herself to modulate her voice.

“This isn’t about the Sense, is it?” Drew asked.

Her friends knew all about the Sense.

“Not just, but it’s been niggling at me. It’s more than that, though. It’s his eyes—”
She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket. “Let me show you.” She brought up the
picture of Con and turned it toward her computer camera so Staci and Drew could see.

Staci gasped. “He does remind me a bit of Jack, only—”

“—more perfect,” Willow finished for her. “As if he’s had reconstructive plastic surgery.”

Drew was frowning.

Which didn’t surprise Willow. She didn’t expect to be believed. At first.

“Does he sound like Jack?” Drew asked.

“Yes, but with a gravelly voice and a European accent. He never loses that accent,
no matter how hard I try to trip him up. I don’t mind, though. It’s sexy.” She grinned
at Drew, trying to get him to smile back at her.

“Jack’s good with language and accents. Not as talented as Kyle was, but damn good
still,” Drew said slowly, raising Willow’s hopes that he was at least considering
the possibility Jack was alive. “Foreign Accent Syndrome would also explain the accent.”

“Foreign what?” Willow asked.

Drew explained. “It’s rare,” he finished. “But it happens. And if Jack lived, and
I’m not convinced he did, his brain has been rewired by the blast so he can’t help
but speak with that accent. It’s involuntary. Tell me more about this Con guy.”

Willow launched into her story as she made a circuit of her house.

When she finished, Drew’s expression was unreadable, calm. She recognized that particular
expression as one of Jack’s spy faces. They must have learned it at The Farm. Anyway,
that expression was better than blatant disbelief. It meant Drew was thinking about
it.

Staci looked optimistic and excited. “You really think Jack’s alive? And fooling you?
But why? Could he have lost his memory?”

“Lost his memory? I’ve thought of that. But Con is way too with it and he has a complete
social media presence with a full life. No, he hasn’t lost his memory,” Willow said.

“As to why he’s trying to fool me? I really don’t know why. But I need to find out.
And for that, I need a DNA test.”

Drew was slow responding. Staci clutched his arm and implored him, “If there’s even
the slightest chance this Con is Jack, Drew, we have to help Willow.” She lowered
her voice and whispered to Drew, but Willow had keen hearing and caught the gist.

Staci felt she owed this much to Willow.

“We can’t leave Willow, and ourselves, in the agony of not knowing for sure,” Staci
said.