Call After Midnight. Tess Gerritsen
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interior, and Sarah’s glasses clouded over. Pulling them off, she turned and looked at him and saw that his hair was wet.
“You must be cold,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
The engine roared to life. A blast of air erupted from the heater, gradually warming them as they drove along the winding road from the cemetery. The windshield wiper squeaked back and forth.
“It started out so beautiful this morning,” she said, watching the rain fall.
“Unpredictable. Just like everything else.”
He smoothly turned the car onto the highway bound for D.C. He was a calm driver, with steady hands. The kind who probably never took risks. Savoring the heater’s warmth, Sarah settled back in her seat.
“Why didn’t you return my calls?” he asked.
“It was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I guess I didn’t want to hear any more speculation about Geoffrey. Or about his death.”
“Even if they’re facts?”
“You weren’t giving me facts, Mr. O’Hara. You were guessing.”
He stared ahead grimly at the road. “I’m not guessing anymore, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve got the facts. All I need is a name.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your husband. You said that six months ago you met Geoffrey Fontaine at a coffee shop. He must have swept you clean off your feet. Four months later you were married. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to say this, but Geoffrey Fontaine— the real Geoffrey Fontaine—died forty-two years ago. As an infant.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t understand…”
He didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes on the road as he talked. “The man you married took the name of a dead infant. It’s easy enough to do. You hunt around for the name of a baby who died around the year you were born. Then you get a copy of the birth certificate. With that you apply for a Social Security number, a driver’s license, a marriage license. You become that infant, grown up. A new identity. A new life. With all the records to prove it.”
“But—but how do you know all this?”
“Everything’s on computer these days. From a few cross-checks, I found out that Geoffrey Fontaine never registered for the draft. He never attended school. He never held a bank account—until a year ago, when his name suddenly appeared in a dozen different places.”
The breath went out of her. “Then who was he?” she whispered at last. “Who did I marry?”
“I don’t know,” Nick answered.
“Why? Why would he do it? Why would he start a new life?”
“I can think of lots of reasons. My first thought was that he was wanted for some crime. His thumbprints were on record with the driver’s license bureau, so I had them run through the FBI computer. He’s not on any of their lists.”
“Then he wasn’t a criminal.”
“There’s no proof that he was. Another possibility is that he was in some kind of federal witness program, that he was given a new name for protection. It’s hard for me to check on that. The data are locked up tight. It would, however, give us a motive for his murder.”
“You mean—the people he testified against—they found him.”
“That’s right.”
“But he would have told me about something like that, he would have shared it with me….”
“That’s what makes me think of one more possibility. Maybe you can confirm it.”
“Go on.”
“What if your husband’s new name and new life were just part of his job? He might not have been running from anything. He might have been sent here.”
“You mean he was a spy,” she said softly.
He looked at her and nodded. His eyes were as gray as the storm clouds outside.
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “None of it!”
“It’s real. I assure you.”
“Then why are you telling me? How do you know I’m not an accomplice or something?”
“I think you’re clean, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve seen your file—”
“Oh. I have a file, too?” she shot back.
“You got security clearance some years ago, remember? For the research you were working on. Naturally a file was generated.”
“Naturally.”
“But it’s not just your file that makes me think you’re clean. It’s my own gut feeling. Now convince me I’m right.”
“How? Should I hook myself up to a polygraph?”
“Start off by telling me about you and Geoffrey. Were you in love?”
“Of course we were!”
“So it was a real marriage? You had…relations?”
She flushed. “Yes. Like any normal couple. Do you want to know how often? When?”
“I’m not playing games. I’m sticking my neck out for you. If you don’t like my approach, perhaps you’d prefer the way the Company handles it.”
“Then you haven’t told the CIA?”
“No.” His chin came up in an unintended gesture of stubbornness. “I don’t care much for the way they do things. I may get slapped down for this, but then again, I may not.”
“So why are you putting yourself on the line?”
He shrugged. “Curiosity. Maybe a chance to see what I can do on my own.”
“Ambition?”
“That’s part of it, I guess. Plus…” He glanced at her, and their eyes met. Suddenly he fell silent.
“Plus what?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
The rain was coming down in sheets and streamed across the windshield. Nick left the freeway and edged into city-bound traffic. Driving through D.C. rush hour usually made Sarah nervous; today, though, she took it calmly. Something about the way Nick O’Hara drove made her feel safe. In fact, everything about him spoke of safety—the steadiness of his hands on the wheel, the warmth of his car, the low timbre of his voice. Just sitting beside him, she felt secure. She could imagine how safe a woman might feel in his arms.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you can see we’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. You might have some of the answers, whether you know it or not.”
“I don’t have any answers.”
“Let’s start off with what you do know.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “I was married to him and I can’t even tell you his real name!”
“Everyone, Sarah, even the best spy, slips up. He must’ve let his guard down for a moment. Maybe he talked in his sleep. Maybe he said things you can’t explain. Think.”
She bit her lip, suddenly thinking not about Geoffrey, but about Nick. He’d called her by her first name. Sarah. “Even if there were things,” she said, “little things—I might not have considered them significant.”
“Such as?”
“Oh,