Frozen Memories. Cassie Miles
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The soft beige turtleneck, the jeans and the lightweight, superwarm Patagonia jacket were familiar. As she changed into the clothes, she remembered when she’d bought them, remembered trying them on, washing them and taking them out of the dryer. Her memory seemed back to normal, except for recent events.
It was as if a neuroprogrammer had reached into her skull and erased chunks of her brain. Last night and yesterday were totally blank. Until Spence had explained the investigation at NORAD, she didn’t know why she was here. What kind of computer hacking did she do? Who taught her? And then, there was Spence. He was the most fascinating puzzle of all. She remembered him but didn’t know if they were tangled in a hot-and-heavy relationship or if they were just friends.
When she raised her arms to slip the turtleneck over her head, her torso twisted and she felt a stab of pain from the big, nasty bruise on her side and hip. Unwilling to admit how truly lousy she felt, Angelica forced herself to stand erect. Wearing her own clothing felt good. Even better, she found a makeup kit and toiletries in the backpack.
Confronting the mirror that hung above the dresser was horrific. From her snarled black hair to her chapped cheeks to her hazel-green eyes, which were road-mapped with red squiggles, she was a mess. How could Spence even look at her without gagging? If she ever hoped to find out what kind of relationship she had with him, damage control was necessary.
After she combed her hair, put on lotion and dabbed at the worst parts of her face with makeup, she looked around the guest bedroom. On the top of the dresser was an army of clay figurines that were obviously sculpted in kindergarten classes. And there were tons of framed photos of kids in costumes, playing games, skating and skiing.
Trudy was the opposite of Angelica’s mom, who kept tidy scrapbooks and limited her displays to formal pictures, such as wedding photos, graduation pictures and framed diplomas. Angelica figured she was more like Trudy, favoring snapshots of kids with dirty faces and stolen moments caught on film. She liked to think that pictures were a good way to capture memories, her memories.
Eyes closed, she attempted to focus. She visualized the headquarters where she worked, an attractive space filled with bold artwork, curving corridors, horizontal windows and computer screens with cascading streams of numbers. She imagined her desk in a smallish, orange-and-white office with a window, an ergonomic chair and a white desk that extended the length of one wall. Her gaze zoomed in on a framed photo of her and Spence, laughing and embracing. In another intimate picture, they were holding hands and walking at the edge of a frothy ruffle of surf.
The sound of a ringtone from downstairs pulled her out of her reverie. Spence’s ringtone, it played the opening notes to Camelot. He’d changed it to that theme after they saw a revival of the musical at the Arena Theater.
Vivid images of what happened after they went back to the hotel after curtain call rushed through her. She tasted the fizz of champagne, smelled the scent of fresh roses, felt his huge hands encircling her waist as she opened her mouth for his kiss. The definitive answer to one of her questions became clear. Their relationship was anything but casual. Deep and intense, they were lovers.
Spence zipped up his parka and took his cell phone outside onto the snow-covered porch that stretched across the front of the cabin. The caller ID displayed: “SA RAMI.” It had to be Special Agent Ramirez calling to let Spence know that the SWAT takedown was successful. But the first words Ramirez said were, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“One of the suspects got away.”
He launched into an explanation of what had happened at the nearby cabin, but Spence stopped him. “That’s enough.”
“You need to understand that—”
“You and a trained team of SWAT officers failed to apprehend four mindless goons in a sneak attack.” In spite of the cold, Spence was steaming. “Spare me the details.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ramirez complained.
Spence hadn’t forgotten that SA Ramirez was quick to sneer at Angelica’s rookie status. “Is SWAT in pursuit?”
“They are, but this guy got out of his cuffs, grabbed a weapon and—”
“He’s armed?”
“Oh, yeah, he was slick. He took off like a jackrabbit. They aren’t going to catch him.”
And why aren’t you chasing him? Spence had little respect for feds like Ramirez who left the real work of law enforcement to the cops while they stood around posing in their black suits and their FBI windbreakers. Part of Spence’s investigation at NORAD would include checking out Ramirez’s office, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find a mole. Even a half-assed spy wouldn’t have much problem outsmarting the likes of Ramirez. His boss, Supervisory Special Agent Raquel Sheeran, was another story. She was as sharp as a stiletto.
Spence ordered, “Arrange for the three in custody to be delivered to the FBI offices.”
“I already have.”
The escaped thug complicated the situation. Spence couldn’t leave Angelica and the elderly couple unprotected while he hiked back to pick up his vehicle. But he wanted to get Angelica checked out by a doctor as soon as possible. Being in two places at one time wasn’t an option.
Though he hated relying on Ramirez, he needed help. He leaned against the porch banister and peered toward the church next door. Though the storm was pretty much over, a blanket of snow lay heavy on the unplowed road and the parking lot. Night was starting to fall, but it wasn’t totally dark. The glow of starlight filtered through the clouds.
“Ramirez, I want you to drive here. Bring one other man.” Spence gave directional driving instructions and used Pastor Clarence’s address for Ramirez’s GPS. “Do you understand?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Pastor Clarence came onto the porch. In spite of his age and potbelly, he moved with the stealth of a hunter. “I can help you find that van at the cabin,” he said. “Angelica mentioned a green door. I know exactly where it is.”
The old man wore a red knit cap, again making Spence think of Santa. But the pastor’s red gloves were clutched around his rifle instead of a bag of toys. The parka that was belted around his ample midsection was black.
“I’m getting picked up,” Spence said. “Besides, you need to be here when the ambulance arrives.”
“The sheriff can figure it out. He’s a real crackerjack.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s not winning any prizes as a first responder.” Spence had to consider the possibility that sweet old Clarence hadn’t, in fact, contacted the emergency dispatcher. Santa might be lying. “How long ago did you make that call?”
“A while.” He tugged on his beard. “Something’s fishy. What was your phone call about?”
“There’s a dangerous armed man on the loose. I’ll get Angelica to the hospital. An officer from SWAT will be left behind to protect you and your wife.”
“I can take care of my family.” Clarence puffed out his chest. “I don’t want some SWAT punk hanging around.”
“You need protection.” Spence was fairly sure the old man was hiding something but didn’t have time to dig for the truth. “The punk stays, and that’s an order.”
“Hah!” The pastor threw back his head. “I’ve been retired for fourteen years. I don’t obey orders unless they come from my sovereign.”
“Who’s that?”
Clarence pointed skyward. “My Lord in Heaven.”
Spence gazed across the snowy crossroads toward the dark, impenetrable