Untitled

THE ORION ASSIGNMENT

by Austin S. Camacho

Prologue

The priest had just finished the benediction when a rumble like the wrath of God burst in his right ear.

The explosion kicked fist sized bits of his small stone church across the front pew. Screams of panic filled the room, and all but the clergyman ran in a blind panic toward the door. His eyes went first to the crumbling wall, then to old Mrs. O'Casey.

Mrs. O'Casey, who spoke fluent Gaelic and walked with a halting tread on spindly legs to sit right down front every Sunday morning without fail just to his right. The stone wall was shifting, its mortar shattered by the explosive blast. Ancient rock would fall in seconds, crushing Mrs. O'Casey's brittle bones, and she was too shocked to move out of the way.

Ears still ringing from the bomb burst, eyes stung by mortar dust, the barrel-chested priest leaped down to the bench and swept his parishioner up in his arms. Breathing through clenched teeth, he jogged up the center aisle. Cradling the old woman like a child, he burst out into the morning's dampness and sunlight. He managed to stand Mrs. O'Casey up in the arms of two younger women before he dropped to his knees, racked with violent coughs.

* * * * *

A soccer field's length away, the window of a gray Mercedes limousine slid down, letting a wisp of the fine Irish mist in. The well dressed passenger in the back seat had a thick shock of wavy red hair. He watched the cloud of smoke roll out of the side of the small church building. The left side of the pitiful structure sagged inward. He could just hear the churchgoers, still screaming and running in circles.

A smile lit the red headed man's tan eyes as his window slid up. He tapped his driver's shoulder with his walking stick and the car moved off. His message had been delivered.

* * * * *

"Are ye all right, Sean?"

"No harm done," the priest said, brushing himself off. "At least not to me." His vestments were filthy, but he removed them with care, revealing a black suit underneath. "At least it looks like everyone got outside okay. But my poor church..."

A man in gray was pulling his hat down over his eyes as he stepped onto the stone path away from the church. Sean's congregation was small these days, and he knew every face in it. This man was a stranger, and strangers were rare in the Irish countryside.

Then Sean turned back to his little church, and walked around the side of the building as if afraid of what he might see. "It looked like it was a small explosion. But, dear Lord in heaven." He stared into a hole wide enough for him to force his broad shoulder through if he wanted to. "What kind of a monster would do such a thing?"

"Ye know full well what kind of monster," Mick Murphy replied. He was a portly man with a big chin and eyes like a ferret's. "You need help, Sean, and if you don't mind me saying so, we both know where you can get it. Go on and get the girl."

"The Lord will provide," the priest said. He watched his parishioners scrambling to the road, many of the women still wailing. His heart sank knowing he was helpless to comfort them or calm their fears.

"Remember the man in the flood, Sean?" Mick asked. "He's hanging on to the roof and a boat comes by. They call for him to jump in and he says `Begone. The Lord will provide'. When he dies on that roof, he ends up facing the Lord in heaven. He says `Lord, I trusted you to provide and you let me die', and the Lord says..."

"Yes," the priest said, "The Lord says `I sent you a boat, you fool.' I remember the story, Mick."

"Well, the Lord has provided you a way if you'll take it, Sean." Both men turned to watch the stained glass window above the hole slide to the ground and explode into shards. The priest's stomach clenched and he fought back tears of anguish or rage. He didn't know which.

"My friend, forget your pride. Go and get the girl. Bring Felicity home."

It was the most glorious Easter ever. A brilliant sun was shining down through cotton ball clouds. The slightest breeze blew in from the lough, carrying the sweet smell of clover. Every person on the narrow street wore a smile of greeting. The little red haired girl stared around like Alice in Wonderland.

She was only six years old, and this was the high point of her young life. Her mother had made her a lovely new pastel blue dress. Father had bought her white shoes and gloves and a darling hat to wear to church. Her deep green eyes sparkled with delight when she looked in the mirror.

They were simple country folk, and the girl couldn't remember going to the city before. Belfast was a teeming metropolis in her eyes. The buildings fascinated her, huddled so close together that they rubbed shoulders. She marveled at the doors, each a different bright color with fan shaped transoms over them. The street was cobblestone, but it had a sidewalk. And it looked like a street lamp stood on every corner. And surely everyone here owned an automobile, there were so many.

The little girl was skipping along, clutching a parent's hand on each side. Every once in a while she tried to swing between them. Father told her she was much too old for that. He wore a new tweed suit and smelled of good wool. Mama smelled like wild flowers.

It was going to be a joyous day. She could imagine everything--the priest greeting them and telling her what a pretty girl she was, her own blushing, and Father telling the priest not to turn her head. It was all just a few minutes away. She could see the tall steeple ahead.

That was when it hit her for the first time. The fear that seemed to crawl out of the ground and up her spine to the nape of her neck. It was the horror she felt when she knew Father was on his way to give her a spanking, but worse. She had no idea what caused it, she only knew she was terrified.

Hair danced all over as she shook her head back and forth. She dragged her feet, trying to pull her parents back. Father asked, "What's gotten into you child?" but she could not answer. Mama said "Felicity Kathleen, you behave like a lady." With a violent wrenching she pulled her hands free from the two holding them.

Father sat down on the hood of a blue Buick with big fins standing at the curb. The girl ran to the nearest shop doorway, flattening herself against the door. She could smell the sweet scent of the baked goods from behind her. Pressing her back against the door put her parents out of sight around the edge of the doorway. She heard mother stamp in her direction. She heard the springs groan as her father pushed to rise from the auto he was leaning on.

Then the world exploded in a deafening blast. There was the sound of shattering glass and metal twisted out of shape. It was so loud she could not hear her own screams. The stench of burning wool and roasting flesh replaced the smell of pies and cakes.

The girl screamed and screamed. The concussion forced her tears back along the sides of her head, into her ears. The horror rose into her throat and she tried to scream it out.

* * * * *

Felicity O'Brien sat bolt upright, terror stretching her eyes wide. Most of the bulky comforter hung off the side of the bed. Her hair was heavy with the weight of perspiration. Sweat glistened on her taut breasts. A vein pulsed hard in her neck and she gasped for breath.

That dream, that God damned dream was back again. How many times would she have to relive that tragic day? How many times would she have to watch, helpless and powerless, as her parents died? Must she spend the rest of her life wondering why it had to be them? Why them and not her? If only she had understood the meaning of that awful feeling. If only she had known it was her mysterious ability to sense danger, activated for the first time. It had saved her life many times since then. If only she had recognized it for what it was that day, it could have saved theirs.

Fighting to keep from retching, Felicity stumbled into the bathroom. She got into the shower and turned on the water as hot as she could stand it. Leaning against the wall, she fell into wracking sobs.

If only the nightmare had happened the night before. Raoul had been there, and soothed her with his continental attentions. It would help to have someone to hold onto when the dream came, she thought. But he let himself out before dawn, leaving her to face the terror alone.

She had to pull herself together. She lathered herself with chamomile soap while she administered her self-oriented pep talk. How could she let a dream ravage her mind like this? Everyone knew she had nerves of steel. Was this any way for an infamous, international jewel thief to act?

Ex-jewel thief, she reminded herself, as she toweled herself dry after her shower. Last year this time she was at the height of her trade. Now she was a respectable business woman with a thriving enterprise to run. After a near brush with death, she and her new partner used their savings to set up a corporation on the outskirts of Los Angeles. She retired from crime as he retired from an even more dangerous life.

By seven forty-two a.m. Felicity was dressed for business. She knew the time exactly, despite the fact that she didn't own a watch and not one clock ticked in her penthouse apartment. She was born with the special gift of perfect time sense. Her internal timepiece matched the reliability of any man made chronometer.

Felicity wasn't at all concerned about reaching her eight-thirty appointment on time. She just stepped out the front door, across the central plaza and into an elevator. Five stories below, the doors slid open revealing a wide glass wall. Centered in that wall was a glass door bearing two lines of simple lettering. At about eye level it read, "STARK & O'BRIEN" and below that, in smaller letters, "Security and Crisis Management Consultants." As she opened the door, those words made her smile. In the months since she had ordered the lettering for that door she had taken care of the security side of the business with ease. After all, she had made a career of defeating security measures. Who could know better how to keep people from getting in where they were not wanted?

"Good morning, Ms. O'Brien. Mister Stark is out of town today, and you have an eight-thirty."

"And good morning to you, Miss Fox," Felicity returned as she walked in. She and Morgan hired Sandy Fox away from a big name detective agency, at the very start of "Stark & O'Brien", to be their receptionist and secretary. Despite ash blonde hair and blue eyes behind her high fashion glasses, Fox was not glamorous. Felicity would have described her as cute, of average height and medium build. She wore a neat dark suit. Sandy's look was always appropriate to a business office, something Felicity was not at all confident about herself.

"So Sandy, do I look all right today?"

"You are truly beautiful, ma'am," Sandy said. Felicity was tall, with long, full red hair, piercing green eyes and a perfect body, but that was not what she was asking about.

"Come on. I mean the outfit." Felicity had long since mastered the perfect look to travel in high society or the criminal underground. She also knew how to be nondescript, invisible to passersby. The professional world was still new to her. This day she wore a simple black wool skirt, plain black pumps and a white silk blouse. A gray and green mohair shawl hung draped over her shoulders, tied at the right.

"Oh, yes. The look is all business. So tell me something. How come it makes you look like a movie star?"

Stuck between frustration and embarrassment, Felicity waved a hand at Sandy and muttered, "Go on with you." She headed toward her inner office.

"Oh, that weird guy Paul is waiting in there. He insists on reporting in or something."

Felicity stopped and turned to look back at Sandy. "That weird guy?"

Fox blushed then, as she so often did. "Sorry boss but, geez, that guy gives me the creeps."

"He had the same effect on me when we met," Felicity said, returning to the reception counter and leaning on it. "He's probably the second most dangerous man I've ever met, with his hands or a gun. And when we met he was pointing his gun at me."

"Really?"

"He had been hired to kidnap me and rip me off," Felicity said. "It's a long story. But today he's a valuable member of our little team and if you give him a chance he kind of grows on you."

While Fox blushed even deeper, Felicity moved on into her office and sat behind her custom made desk. It was shaped like a paisley print amoeba, the fat end on her right. Its top was white Italian marble, resting on steel polished to a mirror finish. The legs seemed to grow straight up out of the plush white carpet. The entire office had been designed and decorated to say, "success."

"So, Paul, what's on for today?" The tall man with ice blue eyes stood in front of her desk with no expression at all on his face.

"I have a courier assignment that will take me to the East Coast today," Paul said in his accent-free voice. "Unless you have something else, Miss O'Brien."

"Will you please relax," she said, pulling a folder from her desk drawer. She planned to review the proposal she would present at eight-thirty. "You've done a fine job from the beginning and I trust you know what you ought to be doing. Lord, you're an employee not a slave."

"Sorry, Miss. I caused you some inconvenience last year&ldots;"

Felicity interrupted him. "Inconvenience? Well, that's one way to put stranding a girl in the South American jungle. But you got the drop on me, and that's not an easy thing to do."

"Yes, ma'am, but after you and Mister Stark saved my life..."

"I've asked you never to mention that again. You're a professional. When you tried to hurt me back then you were doing a job. Just like you will today, I'm quite sure."

"Yes, ma'am. I should begin. Good day." Paul wafted out of the room without a sound. He was good, which is why they hired him. He recognized their professionalism, which was why he worked for them. That, and his imagined debt.

She reflected back on the first days of their thriving business. Marlene Seagrave, a New York businesswoman, recommended them to several industrialists. It was the least she could do. Morgan and Felicity saved her life too, after her husband tried to have them killed. Paul worked as an enforcer for Mr. Seagrave then, but Morgan and Felicity rescued him and Mrs. Seagrave from a blazing building. This earned Paul's loyalty and several referrals from Mrs. Seagrave.

Many other early clients were wealthy individuals whom Felicity knew were recent robbery victims. She knew this, because she had committed those robberies. From there, business grew by word of mouth.

Today's job involved a chemical plant. She had already spent hours designing a comprehensive security plan, to theft-proof the factory as much as possible. She used third generation electronics, combined with state of the art surveillance equipment and her own years of experience in surreptitious entry.

This particular contract was one of their most lucrative, since it included an executive personal security plan devised by Morgan Stark, her partner. He had built an excellent reputation for expertise in arranging for the safety of key personnel in a short time. He designed their schedules, offices and cars to reduce the terrorist threat. Years as a mercenary soldier made him an expert in such matters.

While she thought, she stared at the diamond shaped étagère on the left wall. She bought this glass-shelved case because of its uniqueness, but now it seemed everybody had one. She wondered if she should keep it.

The annoying buzz of her intercom snapped her back to reality.

"Miss O'Brien, there's a Father Sullivan on the line. He insists on speaking with you now." In those five seconds, she went from julep cool to flustered. How did he find her? What did he want? Why was he calling her now?

"Hello," she found herself saying into the telephone receiver.

"I know you're busy and can't talk now," said the voice from the other end. "I just needed t'be sure it was really you and you were in. I'll be coming up there in five minutes. We'll talk then. Bye bye." She struggled to mumble good-bye. God how she had missed that thick brogue.

The next few minutes seemed like hours. She found herself pulling up her hose, smoothing down her skirt and pacing. Pacing? Where were the iron nerves she had when walking a high wire?

Then Ms. Fox opened the door and in he walked in his tweed suit and white collar, with his nose broken from his early days and a big smile under bright blue eyes. They embraced and all those memories came rushing back at her. Mental pictures of a youth spent in the Catholic Church flew past her mind's eye, a whirling kaleidoscope of images from her years being raised by this man built like a bulldog with salt and pepper hair.

"By gosh, girl, are you trying to crack me ribs?"

"I'm sorry Uncle Sean," Felicity said, her face beaming. "I've just missed you so much."

"Have you now, girl? Then why is it you've never called or written?"

After a brief awkward silence, she said, "Well, why don't we go up to my apartment? I can cancel my appointments, and there's so much to catch up on."

"Felicity, me dear, the reason I came to your office is because I'm here on business. I want to hire you to do a job for me."

"You came all the way from Ireland to see me...to hire me?" Felicity looked around in confusion and realized they were still standing in the middle of the room. She motioned Sean toward a chair and moved her left hip onto her desk. He continued to stand, slid his hands into his pockets, and spoke in a flat professional tone.

"We've got a bit of a problem back home. A security matter you see. Threats. Vandalism. Finally, last week, a small bomb set off in me church. I hear you're in the business of keeping these things from happening."

"Oh Uncle Sean, are you sure these aren't just random acts? I mean, why would anyone want to hurt you or your church?" She began to build a smile, but her uncle's stony stare froze it in midair.

"I'll tell you why. I speak out against the violence up north. Against the hatred. Against the `Provisional Irish Republican Army' and the Sinn Fein. It's not a popular stand with some."

"But that's all over," Felicity said. "There's a cease fire on. The Provos, the IRA, have quieted down now. They've all disarmed, for goodness sake. Let's face it, bombing churches is a little out of fashion, even up in Ulster." Her logic bounced off her uncle's face, which was set hard as carved granite.

"You're serious, aren't you?" she asked. With slow, halting steps she paced to the far end of the room, gaining time to think. When she turned she was shaking her head. "Uncle Sean, I'll gladly help you, but I don't want to do business with you."

"Nonsense! I need your professional help. Don't you think the church can raise your fee?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Her words snapped out like the end of a lash through teeth set in a stubborn grimace. "If you insist on handling your problem in a businesslike manner, then I would have to consult with my associate, who's out of town at this time."

"That would be fine. I'll be back tomorrow at four."

"No," she cried when Sean reached for the doorknob. "Please. Come up and stay at my place."

"I have accommodations, thank you. And I'd like to see some of your lovely city while I'm here."

"You stubborn old..." she began, then regained control. "All right. Just tell me where you're staying. We could meet for dinner or something. I'll pick you up tomorrow evening. We'll sit in my apartment, we'll make our business arrangements and then maybe we can talk a little. Please? Okay?" She ended her plea with a hug and a peck on his cheek. The older man put his arm around her slim waist. He smelled of tweed and leather.

"All right, child. I'll come to your home tomorrow if you really insist."

"Uncle," she grinned, giving him a squeeze, "I really insist."

Felicity O'Brien was a connoisseur of fine cars. She had driven all the Italian greats: Maserati, Ferrari, Lamborghini. She owned a Lotus Elan Coupe, a Datsun 350 ZX Turbo, a Mazda RX-7, a vintage Jaguar XKE and the latest edition Corvette ZR-1. As a driver of some of the slickest sports cars ever designed, she hated the borrowed Jeep she was driving. The clutch was hard, the gear box stiff, the steering unresponsive. The seat was a spring loaded granite slab. Her teeth rattled with each bump. Lord, she hated cross country driving.

But that dusty old Jeep was all the blinking sod of a rancher had. He was reluctant to lend it to her, but Felicity was persuasive and even convinced the man to point in the direction Morgan had gone just hours before.

It had been a short flight to the sheep ranch. Ms. Fox had given her Morgan's location. She said he had spent the last three days on that ranch and that he had gone there to do some hunting. Felicity knew that he liked to go off by himself every so often, to live off the land and perhaps experiment with some new field equipment. This time it was labeled a business trip, for which it appeared he would receive some small fee.

Armed with that information she had rushed home and changed into jeans and leather boots. Then she hurried to a small airstrip, hired a private plane and charged off to that remote locale.

Ten minutes of desolation bumped past before she started feeling a subtle mental tug to her left. A slow smile spread over her face as she wrestled the wheel over. She was becoming accustomed to the peculiar psychic link she and Morgan shared.

She had been able to sense when danger threatened her since she was very young. But then, just months before had she met Morgan, and found that he had the same bizarre warning instinct. It didn't take long to discover that they were on the same "wavelength" somehow. Not only could she sense his distress, but if she relaxed enough, she could feel his very location. Even now, the weird tingle in her scalp guided her to her partner and best friend.

As she rattled on over rolling grassy land, her mind flashed back over the last year. They met in a South American jungle. She had stolen a rare piece of jewelry for a man named Seagrave. He double-crossed her and ordered his men to leave her stranded in that tropical forest. As it turned out, Seagrave had done the same to Morgan. In the days that followed, Felicity and Morgan saved each other's lives, fought and bled together, and became closer than either of them had ever been to anyone.

It was in those first few days, long before either of them considered going straight, that they learned about their mental link. At moments of intense emotional reaction they could somehow feel each other's sensations. This, as it turned out, made sex impossible. But as their relationship evolved that fact became irrelevant. Felicity supposed that she loved Morgan as much as she would a brother if she had one. But she trusted him much more.

Dragging her mind back to the present she stopped about fifty yards away from him, pulling the Jeep up beside a motorcycle parked among the dunes. The ground there was like a calm but rolling sea somehow frozen solid. Morgan lay prone against a sandy swell, his head and rifle stretched over the crest. A desert camouflage uniform covered his muscular, brown-skinned body. His kinky hair was cut short. A large tumbleweed lay to the left of his head, and a wide, squat cactus bush stood on his right. His six foot two inch frame was frozen in absolute stillness.

She could feel the tranquility of the scene, just as she could smell the sweet cactus blossoms and fresh crisp air. The total silence gave her the feeling of a diorama, set up in a museum for the viewer's amusement. Perhaps Morgan was staring, fixed on some faraway target. If his concentration was strong enough, maybe she could even sneak up on him.

When she wanted to, Felicity could move with absolute silence. It was a cat burglar prerequisite. Not even a professional mercenary of Morgan's experience could hear her approach.

Of course, he did not need to hear her.

"Freeze, Red." Morgan's sharp voice snapped out, low but intense, when she got within twelve feet of him. His right arm swung back, his index finger jabbing right at her face. He remained still except for that one arm. When his finger returned to its original position, curled around a trigger, his stillness resumed.

Seven seconds later she was startled by a crack like earthbound thunder. The echo flashed out to the horizon and back, and Morgan stopped holding his breath. He waved Felicity forward and pulled his Remington model 700 back to reload the bolt action weapon. In a moment she stretched out beside him, feeling the comforting warmth of the sand and the annoying scratch of the short, sparse grass. She didn't bother with a greeting beyond her smile and a brief nod.

"So, what are you shooting at?"

"Coyotes," Morgan said. "The sheep rancher's having a problem with coyotes. I saw an opportunity to test this new round I'm experimenting with."

"He's paying you for this?"

Morgan waved the question away. "Every one of those pelts is worth a good hundred dollars. The coyotes will pay for the trip."

"A new round? I thought you told me that rifle fired twenty-twos."

"Sure," Morgan replied, settling behind his Leopold variable power scope. "Twenty-two two-fifty caliber. I reamed the chamber out to take a larger case. I use the six millimeter Remington case and neck it down to take the twenty-two cartridge."

"Of course," Felicity said with a smirk. "That's just what I'd do. So much better for, well, must be better for something."

"Sniper work," Morgan said. "Coyote hunting is a lot like sniper work. I don't know if you pay that much attention to my side of the business, but I've got a couple of subcontractors working as counter-snipers in Iraq."

"Counter snipers?"

"When some insurgent takes a shot at our civilian contract force, we hit back, but with precision. For them, I wanted a cartridge that would shoot a bullet fast and flat. It's got to have a lot of power. And it shouldn't make a big mess of the target or in this case, damage the pelt. Here, take a look." He handed her a pair of binoculars. "Today I'm using forty-six grains of powder behind a fifty-two grain hollow point bullet."

"Right." From her viewpoint, Morgan was speaking meaningless gibberish now. He was in his own world, a world of soldiers and hunters. All she could see through the binoculars were two...well, dogs, maybe two feet high or so, with beautiful fur in a light brown, almost yellow color. The Steiner glasses brought her face to face with these animals across the plains. They were looking around in confusion, sometimes looking down at their fallen comrade.

A loud crack on her left made her jump again. In her binoculars, she saw the larger coyote stiffen and fall onto its side. His partner's ears perked and he backed away.

"Right through the lungs," Morgan said, grinning and cocking his fist back, "at three hundred fifty yards." He could judge distances with incredible accuracy, as she well knew. Silence returned and she went back to viewing the distant coyote, pacing back and forth with that light tread that made some animals appear to float across the ground. She knew this beast was raiding some rancher's sheep. Yet, this whole scenario bothered her. No, the truth was, it was Morgan who bothered her. Rifles, she thought, were a way to make killing impersonal and remote. Yet he made it as personal as possible. He modified his rifle, hand loaded and even designed the ammunition to bring these animals down.

"Morgan, I need to talk to you."

"In a minute, Red," Morgan said, getting a good sight picture on the third coyote.

"I'm looking at a job I'm not sure we should take."

"Not now, Red," Morgan hissed through clenched teeth, tightening his cheek weld to the walnut butt stock.

"Morgan, please don't shoot him."

"What?" Morgan stared at Felicity as if he doubted his hearing.

"He's so pretty. And you've already proven twice that you can do it. And my uncle who I haven't seen in seven years wants to hire us."

"What?" Morgan asked again, sounding like an eavesdropper, falling behind the conversation.

"I want to hug him and ask him how things are back home, not do business with him."

"You might have to do business with him as an excuse to visit home," Morgan offered.

"And why do you hunt, anyway?"

"Huh?" Morgan was kneeling up now, as if maybe reading her lips would aid his comprehension.

"I mean, you don't need it for food, like those poor beasts."

He seemed to seize on that point, as if finally she had asked a question he could answer. "Red, hunting is the best way to improve your hearing. To sharpen your eyesight. To acquire stealth." He paused to think. "Besides, it's fun."

"You should try being the hunted. It does all the same things for you. Nothing could match the rush of walking through a crowd of police with a pocket full of hot diamonds. Uncle Sean is meeting me tomorrow evening. Please come back tonight. I can't deal with him alone."

Morgan sat up, laid his rifle down and rested a hand on her shoulder. "This thing's really got you shook up, hasn't it? Of course I'll come back. We'll work out your family problems together." He gave her a hug, and felt her gratitude as she returned it.

Morgan saluted the lone coyote who howled, perhaps in return. As the animal trotted off, Morgan headed for his bike. His partner needed him, and that was enough reason to leave right away. He would send the farmer back for the two valuable pelts.

While Felicity settled into the Jeep, he slung his rifle across his back and straddled the five hundred cc Yamaha waiting for him. His bike was not over-chromed but it was a pure off road racer built for speed. From his saddlebag he pulled leather gloves. The black helmet he lifted from the ground had a one way visor. When he slid it over his face, he was unidentifiable. He kicked the bike into life, circled Felicity's Jeep once and moved out next to her.

His mind was reeling. He couldn't begin to understand why a visiting uncle with a business proposition would be such a traumatic event. So much about this girl, his partner and best friend, was still a mystery to him. He knew she had left her homeland before she reached twenty and never looked back. He believed she sent money home during her impressive career as a most daring and successful jewel and art thief. He knew her parents died when she was a child, but she never talked about what she had done between then and her appearance on the continental crime scene. And he would never ask. She always came across as a total loner. Was it possible she missed this uncle, or felt guilty about leaving? Maybe they parted on bad terms.

His front tire hit a clump of dirt that almost toppled him. He realized it bounced him much harder than it should have. A glance at his speedometer told him he had pushed his machine over ninety miles per hour in his reverie. An unconscious lapse back to his bike racing days, he thought, as he doubled back to rejoin the Jeep.