Keeper of the Bride
Tess Gerritsen

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Also available by Tess Gerritsen

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS

UNDER THE KNIFE

CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT

NEVER SAY DIE

STOLEN

WHISTLEBLOWER

PRESUMED GUILTY

MURDER & MAYHEM COLLECTION

Dear Readers,

Years ago, when I was a doctor in training, one of my patients handed me a paper sack and said, “I’ve finished reading these. You might enjoy them.” Inside that sack were a dozen romance novels, a genre that I had never before read—and had no intention of reading. I was a mystery and science fiction reader. I was working eighty hours a week in the hospital, with scarcely enough time to eat and sleep. But I couldn’t resist taking a peek at one of those romance novels. A few pages in, I was hooked. Within a week, I’d devoured every one of those books.

I’ve been a fan of the genre ever since.

So it’s not surprising that the first eight suspense novels I wrote were also love stories in which danger meets desire and hearts—as well as lives—are at stake. Along with the romance, you’ll find the same thrills and chills, the same twisting plots that I’ve become known for in my later crime novels.

I’m delighted that MIRA is re-releasing my romantic thrillers and I hope you enjoy them!

Tess Gerritsen

Chapter One

THE WEDDING WAS OFF. Cancelled. Canned. Kaput.

Nina Cormier sat staring at herself in the church dressing room mirror and wondered why she couldn’t seem to cry. She knew the pain was there, deep and terrible beneath the numbness, but she didn’t feel it. Not yet. She could only sit dry-eyed, staring at her reflection. The picture-perfect image of a bride. Her veil floated in gossamer wisps about her face. The bodice of her ivory satin dress, embroidered with seed pearls, hung fetchingly off-shoulder. Her long black hair was gathered into a soft chignon. Everyone who’d seen her that morning in the dressing room—her mother, her sister Wendy, her stepmother Daniella—had declared her a beautiful bride.

And she would have been. Had the groom bothered to show up.

He didn’t even have the courage to break the news to her in person. After six months of planning and dreaming, she’d received his note just twenty minutes before the ceremony. Via the best man, no less.

Nina,

I need time to think about this. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m leaving town for a few days. I’ll call you.

Robert

She forced herself to read the note again.

I need time…I need time…

How much time does a man need? she wondered.

A year ago, she’d moved in with Dr. Robert Bledsoe. It’s the only way to know if we’re compatible, he’d told her. Marriage was such a major commitment, a permanent commitment, and he didn’t want to make a mistake. At 41, Robert had known his share of disastrous relationships. He was determined not to make any more mistakes. He wanted to be sure that Nina was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

She’d been certain Robert was the man she’d been waiting for. So certain that, on the very day he’d suggested they live together, she’d gone straight home and packed her bags…

“Nina? Nina, open the door!” It was her sister Wendy, rattling the knob. “Please let me in.”

Nina dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“You need to be with someone.”

“I just want to be alone.”

“Look, the guests have all gone home. The church is empty. It’s just me out here.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Just go home, will you? Please, just go.”

There was a long silence outside the door. Then Wendy said, “If I leave now, how’re you going to get home? You’ll need a ride.”

“Then I’ll call a cab. Or Reverend Sullivan can drive me. I need some time to think.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to talk?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“If that’s what you really want.” Wendy paused, then added, with a note of venom that penetrated even through the oak door, “Robert’s a jerk, you know. I might as well tell you. I’ve always thought he was.”

Nina didn’t answer. She sat at the dressing table, her head in her hands, wanting to cry, but unable to squeeze out a single tear. She heard Wendy’s footsteps fade away, then heard only the silence of the empty church. Still no tears would come. She couldn’t think about Robert right now. Instead, her mind seemed to focus stubbornly on the practical aspects of a cancelled wedding. The catered reception and all that uneaten food. The gifts she had to return. The nonrefundable airline tickets to St. John Island. Maybe she should go on that honeymoon anyway and forget Dr. Robert Bledsoe. She’d go by herself, just her and her bikini. Out of this whole heartbreaking affair, at least she’d come out with a tan.

Slowly she raised her head and once again looked at her reflection in the mirror. Not such a beautiful bride after all, she thought. Her lipstick was smeared and her chignon was coming apart. She was turning into a wreck.

With sudden rage she reached up and yanked off the veil. Hairpins flew in every direction, releasing a rebellious tumble of black hair. To hell with the veil; she tossed it in the trash can. She snatched up her bouquet of white lilies and pink sweetheart roses and slam-dunked it into the trash can as well. That felt good. Her anger was like some new and potent fuel flooding her veins. It propelled her to her feet.

She walked out of the church dressing room, the train of her gown dragging behind her, and entered the nave.

The pews were deserted. Garlands of white carnations draped the aisles, and the altar was adorned with airy sprays of pink roses and baby’s breath. The stage had been beautifully set for a wedding that would never take place. But the lovely results of the florist’s hard work was scarcely noticed by Nina as she strode past the altar and started up the aisle. Her attention was focused straight ahead on the front door. On escape. Even the concerned voice of Reverend Sullivan calling to her didn’t slow her down. She walked past all the floral reminders of the day’s fiasco and pushed through the double doors.

There, on the church steps, she halted. The July sunshine glared in her eyes, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how conspicuous she must be, a lone woman in a wedding gown, trying to wave down a taxi. Only then, as she stood trapped in the brightness of afternoon, did she feel the first sting of tears.

Oh, no. Lord, no. She was going to break down and cry right here on the steps. In full view of every damn car driving past on Forest Avenue.

“Nina? Nina, dear.”

She turned. Reverend Sullivan was standing on the step above her, a look of worry on his kind face.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?” he asked. “If you’d like, we could go inside and talk.”

Miserably she shook her head. “I want to get away from here. Please, I just want to get away.”

“Of course. Of course.” Gently, he took her arm. “I’ll drive you home.”

Reverend Sullivan led her down the steps and around the side of the building, to the staff parking lot. She gathered up her train, which by now was soiled from all that dragging, and climbed into his car. There she sat with all the satin piled high on her lap.

Reverend Sullivan slid in behind the wheel. The heat was stifling inside the car, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead they sat for a moment in awkward silence.

“I know it’s hard to understand what possible purpose the Lord may have for all this,” he said quietly. “But surely there’s a reason, Nina. It may not be apparent to you at the moment. In fact, it may seem to you that the Lord has turned His back.”

“Robert’s the one who turned his back,” she said. Sniffling, she snatched up a clean corner of her train and wiped her face. “Turned his back and ran like hell.”

“Ambivalence is common for bridegrooms. I’m sure Dr. Bledsoe felt this was a big step for him—”

“A big step for him? I suppose marriage is just a stroll in the park for me?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me.”

“Oh, please.” She gave a muffled sob. “Just take me home.”

Shaking his head, he put the key in the ignition. “I only wanted to explain to you, dear, in my own clumsy way, that this isn’t the end of the world. It’s the nature of life. Fate is always throwing surprises at us, Nina. Crises we never expect. Things that seem to pop right out of the blue.”

A deafening boom suddenly shook the church building. The explosion shattered the stained glass windows, and a hail of multicolored glass shards flew across the parking lot. Torn hymn books and fragments of church pews tumbled onto the blacktop.

As the white smoke slowly cleared, Nina saw a dusting of flower petals drift gently down from the sky and settle on the windshield right in front of Reverend Sullivan’s shocked eyes.

“Right out of the blue,” she murmured. “You couldn’t have said it better.”

“You TWO, WITHOUT A DOUBT, are the biggest screwups of the year.”

Portland police detective Sam Navarro, sitting directly across the table from the obviously upset Norm Liddell, didn’t bat an eyelash. There were five of them sitting in the station conference room, and Sam wasn’t about to give this prima donna D.A. the satisfaction of watching him flinch in public. Nor was Sam going to refute the charges, because they had screwed up. He and Gillis had screwed up big time, and now a cop was dead. An idiot cop, but a cop all the same. One of their own.

“In our defense,” spoke up Sam’s partner Gordon Gillis, “we never gave Marty Pickett permission to approach the site. We had no idea he’d crossed the police line—”

“You were in charge of the bomb scene,” said Liddell. “That makes you responsible.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Gillis. “Officer Pickett has to bear some of the blame.”

“Pickett was just a rookie.”

“He should’ve been following procedure. If he’d—”

“Shut up, Gillis,” said Sam.

Gillis looked at his partner. “Sam, I’m only trying to defend our position.”

“Won’t do us a damn bit of good. Since we’re obviously the designated fall guys.” Sam leaned back in his chair and eyed Liddell across the conference table. “What do you want, Mr. D.A.? A public flogging? Our resignations?”

“No one’s asking for your resignations,” cut in Chief Abe Coopersmith. “And this discussion is getting us nowhere.”

“Some disciplinary action is called for,” said Liddell. “We have a dead police officer—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Coopersmith. “I’m the one who had to answer to the widow. Not to mention all those bloodsucking reporters. Don’t give me this us and we crap, Mr. D.A. It was one of ours who fell. A cop. Not a lawyer.”

Sam looked in surprise at his chief. This was a new experience, having Coopersmith on his side. The Abe Coopersmith he knew was a man of few words, few of them complimentary. It was because Liddell was rubbing them all the wrong way. When under fire, cops always stuck together.

“Let’s get back to the business at hand, okay?” said Coopersmith. “We have a bomber in town. And our first fatality. What do we know so far?” He looked at Sam, who was head of the newly re-formed Bomb Task Force. “Navarro?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” admitted Sam. He opened a file folder and took out a sheaf of papers. He distributed copies to the other four men around the table—Liddell, Chief Coopersmith, Gillis, and Ernie Takeda, the explosives expert from the Maine State Crime Lab. “The first blast occurred around 2:15 a.m. The second blast around 2:30 a.m. It was the second one that pretty much levelled the R. S. Hancock warehouse. It also caused minor damage to two adjoining buildings. The night watchman was the one who found the first device. He noticed signs of breaking and entering, so he searched the building. The bomb was left on a desk in one of the offices. He put in the call at 1:30 a.m. Gillis got there around 1:50, I was there at 2:00 a.m. We had the blast area cordoned off and the top-vent container truck had just arrived when the first one went off. Then, fifteen minutes later—before we could search the building—the second device exploded. Killing Officer Pickett.” Sam glanced at Liddell, but this time the D.A. chose to keep his mouth shut. “The dynamite was Dupont label.”

There was a brief silence in the room. Then Coo-persmith said, “Not the same Dupont lot number as those two bombs last year?”

“It’s very likely,” said Sam. “Since that missing lot number’s the only reported large dynamite theft we’ve had up here in years.”

“But the Spectre bombings were solved a year ago,” said Liddell. “And we know Vincent Spectre’s dead. So who’s making these bombs?”

“We may be dealing with a Spectre apprentice. Someone who not only picked up the master’s technique, but also has access to the master’s dynamite supply. Which, I point out, we never located.”

“You haven’t confirmed the dynamite’s from the same stolen lot number,” said Liddell. “Maybe this has no connection at all with the Spectre bombings.”

“I’m afraid we have other evidence,” said Sam. “And you’re not going to like it.” He glanced at Ernie Takeda. “Go ahead, Ernie.”

Takeda, never comfortable with public speaking, kept his gaze focused on the lab report in front of him. “Based on materials we gathered at the site,” he said, “we can make a preliminary guess as to the makeup of the device. We believe the electrical action fuse was set off by an electronic delay circuit. This in turn ignited the dynamite via Prima detonating cord. The sticks were bundled together with two-inch-wide green electrical tape.” Takeda cleared his throat and finally looked up. “It’s the identical delay circuit that the late Vincent Spectre used in his bombings last year.”

Liddell looked at Sam. “The same circuitry, the same dynamite lot? What the hell’s going on?”

“Obviously,” said Gillis, “Vincent Spectre passed on a few of his skills before he died. Now we’ve got a second generation bomber on our hands.”

“What we still have to piece together,” said Sam, “is the psychological profile of this newcomer. Spectre’s bombings were coldbloodedly financial. He was hired to do the jobs and he did them, bam, bam, bam. Efficient. Effective. This new bomber has to set a pattern.”

“What you’re saying,” said Liddell, “is that you expect him to hit again.”

Sam nodded wearily. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

There was a knock on the door. A patrolwoman stuck her head into the conference room. “Excuse me, but there’s a call for Navarro and Gillis.”

“I’ll take it,” said Gillis. He rose heavily to his feet and went to the conference wall phone.

Liddell was still focused on Sam. “So this is all that Portland’s finest can come up with? We wait for another bombing so that we can establish a pattern? And then maybe, just maybe, we’ll have an idea of what the hell we’re doing?”

“A bombing, Mr. Liddell,” said Sam calmly, “is an act of cowardice. It’s violence in the absence of the perpetrator. I repeat the word—absence. We have no ID, no fingerprints, no witnesses to the planting, no—”

“Chief,” cut in Gillis. He hung up the phone. “They’ve just reported another one.”

“What?” said Coopersmith.

Sam had already shot to his feet and was moving for the door.

“What was it this time?” called Liddell. “Another warehouse?”

“No,” said Gillis. “A church.”

THE COPS ALREADY had the area cordoned off by the time Sam and Gillis arrived at the Good Shepherd Church. A crowd was gathered up and down the street. Three patrol cars, two fire trucks and an ambulance were parked haphazardly along Forest Avenue. The bomb disposal truck and its boiler-shaped carrier in the flatbed stood idly near the church’s front entrance—or what was left of the front entrance. The door had been blown clear off its hinges and had come to rest at the bottom of the front steps. Broken glass was everywhere. The wind scattered torn pages of hymn books like dead leaves along the sidewalk. Gillis swore. “This was a big one.”

As they approached the police line, the officer in charge turned to them with a look of relief. “Navarro! Glad you could make it to the party.”

“Any casualties?” asked Sam.

“None, as far as we know. The church was unoccupied at the time. Pure luck. There was a wedding scheduled for two, but it was cancelled at the last minute.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Some doctor’s. The bride’s sitting over there in the patrol car. She and the minister witnessed the blast from the parking lot.”

“I’ll talk to her later,” said Sam. “Don’t let her leave. Or the minister, either. I’m going to check the building for a second device.”

“Better you than me.”

Sam donned body armor, made of overlapping steel plates encased in nylon. He also carried a protective mask, to be worn in case a second bomb was identified. A bomb tech, similarly garbed, stood by the front door awaiting orders to enter the building. Gillis would wait outside near the truck; his role this time around was to fetch tools and get the bomb carrier ready.

“Okay,” Sam said to the technician. “Let’s go.”

They stepped through the gaping front entrance.

The first thing Sam noticed was the smell—strong and faintly sweet. Dynamite, he thought. He recognized the odor of its aftermath. The force of the blast had caused the pews at the rear to topple backward. At the front, near the altar, the pews had been reduced to splinters. All the stained glass panels were broken, and where the windows faced south, hazy sunlight shone in through the empty frames.

Without a word between them, Sam and the tech automatically split up and moved along opposite sides of the nave. The site would be more thoroughly searched later; this time around, their focus was only on locating any second bombs. The death of Marty Pickett still weighed heavily on Sam’s conscience, and he wasn’t about to let any other officers enter this building until he had cleared it.

Moving in parallel, the two men paced the nave, their eyes alert for anything resembling an explosive device. All the debris made it a slow search. As they moved forward, the damage visibly worsened, and the odor of exploded dynamite grew stronger. Getting closer, he thought. The bomb was planted somewhere around here…

In front of the altar, at a spot where the first row of pews would have stood, they found the crater. It was about three feet across and shallow; the blast had ripped through the carpet and pad, but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast—again, compatible with dynamite.

They would take a closer look at it later. They continued their search. They finished with the nave and progressed to the hallways, the dressing rooms, the restrooms. No bombs. They went into the annex and surveyed the church offices, the meeting rooms, the Sunday school classroom. No bombs. They exited through a rear door and searched the entire outside wall. No bombs.

Satisfied at last, Sam returned to the police line, where Gillis was waiting. There he took off the body armor. “Building’s clean,” Sam said. “We got the searchers assembled?”

Gillis gestured to the six men waiting near the bomb carrier truck. There were two patrolmen and four crime lab techs, each one clutching empty evidence bags. “They’re just waiting for the word.”

“Let’s get the photographer in there first, then send the team in. The crater’s up front, around the first row of pews on the right.”

“Dynamite?”

Sam nodded. “If I can trust my nose.” He turned and eyed the crowd of gawkers. “I’m going to talk to the witnesses. Where’s the minister?”

“They just took him off to the ER. Chest pains. All that stress.”

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “Did anyone talk to him?”

“Patrolman did. We have his statement.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I guess that leaves me with the bride.”

“She’s still waiting in the patrol car. Her name’s Nina Cormier.”

“Cormier. Gotcha.” Sam ducked under the yellow police line and worked his way through the gathering of onlookers. Scanning the official vehicles, he spotted a silhouette in the front passenger seat of one of the cars. The woman didn’t move as he approached; she was staring straight ahead like some wedding store mannequin. He leaned forward and tapped on the window.

The woman turned. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the glass. Despite the smudged mascara, the softly rounded feminine face was undeniably pretty. Sam motioned to her to roll down the window. She complied.

“Miss Cormier? I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland police.”

“I want to go home,” she said. “I’ve talked to so many cops already. Please, can’t I just go home?”

“First I have to ask you a few questions.”

“A few?”

“All right,” he admitted. “It’s more like a lot of questions.”

She gave a sigh. Only then did he see the weariness in her face. “If I answer all your questions, Detective,” she said, “will you let me go home?”

“I promise.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

He nodded soberly. “Always.”

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Right,” she muttered. “Men and their promises.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, never mind.”

He circled around the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. The woman next to him said nothing; she just sat there in resigned silence. She seemed almost swallowed up by those frothy layers of white satin. Her hairdo was coming undone and silky strands of black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Not at all the happy picture of a bride, he thought. She seemed stunned, and very much alone.

Where the hell was the groom?

Stifling an instinctive rush of sympathy, he reached for his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. “Can I have your full name and address?”

The answer came out in a bare whisper. “Nina Margaret Cormier, 318 Ocean View Drive.”

He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. “Okay, Miss Cormier,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, she’d barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.

And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?

“Miss Cormier,” he sighed. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?”

“It blew up,” she said. “Can I go home?”

“What do you mean by blew up?”

“There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. I’d say it was your typical exploding building.”

“You mentioned smoke. What color was the smoke?”

“What?”

“Was it black? White?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “It was white, I think.”

“You think?”

“All right. I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. For the first time she really focused on his face. If he’d been smiling, if there’d been even a trace of warmth, it would have been a pleasant enough face to look at. He was in his late thirties. He had dark brown hair that was about two weeks overdue for a trim. His face was thin, his teeth were perfect, and his deep set green eyes had the penetrating gaze one expected of a romantic lead movie cop. Only this was no movie cop. This was an honest-to-goodness cop with a badge, and he wasn’t in the least bit charming. He was studying her with a completely detached air, as though sizing up her reliability as a witness.

She gazed back at him, thinking, Here I am, the rejected bride. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me. What terrible flaws I possess that led to my being stood up at the altar.

She buried her fists in the white satin mounded on her lap. “I’m sure the smoke was white,” she said tightly. “For whatever difference that makes.”

“It makes a difference. It indicates a relative absence of carbon.”

“Oh. I see.” Whatever that told him.

“Were there any flames?”

“No. No flames.”

“Did you smell anything?”

“You mean like gas?”

“Anything at all?”

She frowned. “Not that I remember. But I was outside the building.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Reverend Sullivan and I were sitting in his car. In the parking lot around the side. So I wouldn’t have smelled the gas. Anyway, natural gas is odorless. Isn’t it?”

“It can be difficult to detect.”

“So it doesn’t mean anything. That I didn’t smell it.”

“Did you see anyone near the building prior to the explosion?”

“There was Reverend Sullivan. And some of my family. But they all left earlier.”

“What about strangers? Anyone you don’t know?”

“No one was inside when it happened.”

“I’m referring to the time prior to the explosion, Miss Cormier.”

“Prior?”

“Did you see anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”

She stared at him. He gazed back at her, green eyes absolutely steady. “You mean—are you thinking—”

He didn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t a gas leak?” she said softly.

“No,” he said. “It was a bomb.”

She sank back, her breath escaping in a single shocked rush. Not an accident, she thought. Not an accident at all…

“Miss Cormier?”

Wordlessly she looked at him. Something about the way he was watching her, that flat, emotionless gaze of his, made her frightened.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this next question,” he said. “But you understand, it’s something I have to pursue.”

She swallowed. “What…what question?”

“Do you know of anyone who might want you dead?”

Chapter Two

“THIS IS CRAZY,” she said. “This is absolutely nuts.”

“I have to explore the possibility.”

“What possibility? That the bomb was meant for me?”

“Your wedding was scheduled for two o’clock. The bomb went off at 2:40. It exploded near the front row of pews. Near the altar. There’s no doubt in my mind, judging by the obvious force of the blast, that you and your entire wedding party would have been killed. Or, at the very least, seriously maimed. This is a bomb we’re talking about, Miss Cormier. Not a gas leak. Not an accident. A bomb. It was meant to kill someone. What I have to find out is, who was the target?”

She didn’t answer. The possibilities were too horrible to even contemplate.

“Who was in your wedding party?” he asked.

She swallowed. “There was…there was…”

“You and Reverend Sullivan. Who else?”

“Robert—my fiancé. And my sister Wendy. And Jeremy Wall, the best man…”

“Anyone else?”

“My father was going to give me away. And there was a flower girl and a ring bearer…”

“I’m only interested in the adults. Let’s start with you.”

Numbly she shook her head. “It—it wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me.”

“Why couldn’t it?”

“It’s impossible.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because no one would want me dead!”

Her sharp cry seemed to take him by surprise. For a moment he was silent. Outside, on the street, a uniformed cop turned and glanced at them. Sam responded with an everything’s fine wave of the hand, and the cop turned away again.

Nina sat clutching the rumpled hem of her gown. This man was horrid. Sam Spade without a trace of human warmth. Though it was getting hot in the car, she found herself shivering, chilled by the lack of obvious emotion displayed by the man sitting beside her.

“Can we explore this a little more?” he said.

She said nothing.

“Do you have any ex-boyfriends, Miss Cormier? Anyone who might be unhappy about your marriage?”

“No,” she whispered.

“No ex-boyfriends at all?”

“Not—not in the last year.”

“Is that how long you’ve been with your fiancé? A year?”

“Yes.”

“His full name and address, please.”

“Robert David Bledsoe, M.D., 318 Ocean View Drive.”

“Same address?”

“We’ve been living together.”

“Why was the wedding cancelled?”

“You’d have to ask Robert.”

“So it was his decision? To call off the wedding?”

“As the expression goes, he left me at the altar.”

“Do you know why?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve come to the earth-shattering conclusion, Detective, that the minds of men are a complete mystery to me.”

“He gave you no warning at all?”

“It was just as unexpected as that…” She swallowed. “As that bomb. If that’s what it was.”

“What time was the wedding called off?”

“About one-thirty. I’d already arrived at the church, wedding gown and all. Then Jeremy—Robert’s best man—showed up with the note. Robert didn’t even have the nerve to tell me himself.” She shook her head in disgust.

“What did the note say?”

“That he needed more time. And he was leaving town for a while. That’s all.”

“Is it possible Robert had any reason to—”

“No, it’s not possible!” She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re asking if Robert had something to do with it. Aren’t you?”

“I keep an open mind, Miss Cormier.”

“Robert’s not capable of violence. For God’s sake, he’s a doctor!”

“All right. For the moment, we’ll let that go. Let’s look at other possibilities. I take it you’re employed?”

“I’m a nurse at Maine Medical Center.”

“Which department?”

“Emergency room.”

“Any problems at work? Any conflicts with the rest of the staff?”

“No. We get along fine.”

“Any threats? From your patients, for instance?”

She made a sound of exasperation. “Detective, wouldn’t I know if I had enemies?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You’re trying your damn best to make me feel paranoid.”

“I’m asking you to step back from yourself. Examine your personal life. Think of all the people who might not like you.”

Nina sank back in the seat. All the people who might not like me. She thought of her family. Her older sister Wendy, with whom she’d never been close. Her mother Lydia, married to her wealthy snob of a husband. Her father George, now on his fourth wife, a blond trophy bride who considered her husband’s offspring a nuisance. It was one big, dysfunctional family, but there were certainly no murderers among them.

She shook her head. “No one, Detective. There’s no one.”

After a moment he sighed and closed his notebook. “All right, Miss Cormier. I guess that’s all for now.”

“For now?”

“I’ll probably have other questions. After I talk to the rest of the wedding party.” He opened the car door, got out, and pushed the door shut. Through the open window he said, “If you think of anything, anything at all, give me a call.” He scribbled in his notebook and handed her the torn page with his name, Detective Samuel I. Navarro, and a phone number. “It’s my direct line,” he said. “I can also be reached twenty-four hours a day through the police switchboard.”

“Then…I can go home now?”

“Yes.” He started to walk away.

“Detective Navarro?”

He turned back to her. She had not realized how tall he was. Now, seeing his lean frame at its full height, she wondered how he’d ever fit in the seat beside her. “Is there something else, Miss Cormier?” he asked.

“You said I could leave.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t have a ride.” She nodded toward the bombed-out church. “Or a phone either. Do you think you could give my mother a call? To come get me?”

“Your mother?” He glanced around, obviously anxious to palm off this latest annoyance. Finally, with a look of resignation, he circled around to her side of the car and opened the door. “Come on. We can go in my car. I’ll drive you.”

“Look, I was only asking you to make a call.”

“It’s no trouble.” He extended his hand to help her out. “I’d have to go by your mother’s house anyway.”

“My mother’s house? Why?”

“She was at the wedding. I’ll need to talk to her, too. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

What a gallant way to put it, she thought.

He was still reaching out to her. She ignored his outstretched hand. It was a struggle getting out of the car, since her train had wrapped itself around her legs, and she had to kick herself free of the hem. By the time she’d finally extricated herself from the car, he was regarding her with a look of amusement. She snatched up her train and whisked past him in a noisy rustle of satin.

“Uh, Miss Cormier?”

“What?” she snapped over her shoulder.

“My car’s in the other direction.”

She halted, her cheeks flushing. Mr. Detective was actually smiling now, a full-blown ate-the-canary grin.

“It’s the blue Taurus,” he pointed out. “The door’s unlocked. I’ll be right with you.” He turned and headed away, toward the gathering of cops.

Nina flounced over to the blue Taurus. There she peered in disgust through the window. She was supposed to ride in this car? With that mess? She opened the door. A paper cup tumbled out. On the passenger floor was a crumpled McDonald’s bag, more coffee cups, and a two-day-old Portland Press Herald. The back seat was buried under more newspapers, file folders, a briefcase, a suit jacket, and—of all things—a baseball mitt.

She scooped up the debris from the passenger side, tossed it into the back, and climbed in. She only hoped the seat was clean.

Detective Cold Fish was walking toward the car. He looked hot and harassed. His shirtsleeves were rolled up now, his tie yanked loose. Even as he tried to leave the scene, cops were pulling him aside to ask questions.

At last he slid in behind the wheel and slammed the door. “Okay, where does your mother live?” he asked.

“Cape Elizabeth. Look, I can see you’re busy—”

“My partner’s holding the fort. I’ll drop you off, talk to your mother, and swing by the hospital to see Reverend Sullivan.”

“Great. That way you can kill three birds with one stone.”

“I do believe in efficiency.”

They drove in silence. She saw no point in trying to dredge up polite talk. Politeness would go right over this man’s head. Instead, she looked out the window and thought morosely about the wedding reception and all those finger sandwiches waiting for guests who’d never arrive. She’d have to call and ask for the food to be delivered to a soup kitchen before it all spoiled. And then there were the gifts, dozens of them, piled up at home. Correction—Robert’s home. It had never really been her home. She had only been living there, a tenant. It had been her idea to pay half the mortgage. Robert used to point out how much he respected her independence, her insistence on a separate identity. In any good relationship, he’d say, privilege as well as responsibility was a fifty-fifty split. That’s how they’d worked it from the start. First he’d paid for a date, then she had. In fact, she’d insisted, to show him that she was her own woman.

Now it all seemed so stupid.

I was never my own woman, she thought. I was always dreaming, longing for the day I’d be Mrs. Robert Bledsoe. It’s what her family had hoped for, what her mother had expected of her: to marry well. They’d never understood Nina’s going to nursing school, except as a way to meet a potential mate. A doctor. She’d met one, all right.

And all it’s gotten me is a bunch of gifts I have to return, a wedding gown I can’t return, and a day I’ll never, ever live down.

It was the humiliation that shook her the most. Not the fact that Robert had walked out. Not even the fact that she could have died in the wreckage of that church. The explosion itself seemed unreal to her, as remote as some TV melodramas. As remote as this man sitting beside her.

“You’re handling this very well,” he said.

Startled that Detective Cold Fish had spoken, she looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re taking this very calmly. Calmer than most.”

“I don’t know how else to take it.”

“After a bombing, hysteria would not be out of line.”

“I’m an ER nurse, Detective. I don’t do hysteria.”

“Still, this had to be a shock for you. There could well be an emotional aftermath.”

“You’re saying this is the calm before the storm?”

“Something like that.” He glanced at her, his gaze meeting hers. Just as quickly, he looked back at the road and the connection was gone. “Why wasn’t your family with you at the church?”

“I sent them all home.”

“I would think you’d want them around for support, at least.”

She looked out the window. “My family’s not exactly the supportive type. And I guess I just…needed to be alone. When an animal gets hurt, Detective, it goes off by itself to lick its wounds. That’s what I needed to do…” She blinked away an unexpected film of tears and fell silent.

“I know you don’t feel much like talking right now,” he said. “But maybe you can answer this question for me. Can you think of anyone else who might’ve been a target? Reverend Sullivan, for instance?”

She shook her head. “He’s the last person anyone would hurt.”

“It was his church building. He would’ve been near the blast center.”

“Reverend Sullivan’s the sweetest man in the world! Every winter, he’s handing out blankets on the street. Or scrounging up beds at the shelter. In the ER, when we see patients who have no home to go to, he’s the one we call.”

“I’m not questioning his character. I’m just asking about enemies.”

“He has no enemies,” she said flatly.

“What about the rest of the wedding party? Could any of them have been targets?”

“I can’t imagine—”

“The best man, Jeremy Wall. Tell me about him.”

“Jeremy? There’s not much to say. He went to medical school with Robert. He’s a doctor at Maine Med. A radiologist.”

“Married?”

“Single. A confirmed bachelor.”

“What about your sister, Wendy? She was your maid of honor?”

“Matron of honor. She’s a happy homemaker.”

“Any enemies?”

“Not unless there’s someone out there who resents perfection.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s just say she’s the dream daughter every parent hopes for.”

“As opposed to you?”

Nina gave a shrug. “How’d you guess?”

“All right, so that leaves one major player. The one who, coincidentally, decided not to show up at all.”

Nina stared straight ahead. What can I tell him about Robert, she thought, when I myself am completely in the dark?

To her relief, he didn’t pursue that line of questioning. Perhaps he’d realized how far he’d pushed her. How close to the emotional edge she was already tottering. As they drove the winding road into Cape Elizabeth, she felt her calm facade at last begin to crumble. Hadn’t he warned her about it? The emotional aftermath. The pain creeping through the numbness. She had held together well, had weathered two devastating shocks with little more than a few spilt tears. Now her hands were beginning to shake, and she found that every breath she took was a struggle not to sob.

When at last they pulled up in front of her mother’s house, Nina was barely holding herself together. She didn’t wait for Sam to circle around and open her door. She pushed it open herself and scrambled out in a sloppy tangle of wedding gown. By the time he walked up the front steps, she was already leaning desperately on the doorbell, silently begging her mother to let her in before she fell apart completely.

The door swung open. Lydia, still elegantly coiffed and gowned, stood staring at her dishevelled daughter. “Nina? Oh, my poor Nina.” She opened her arms.

Automatically Nina fell into her mother’s embrace. So hungry was she for a hug, she didn’t immediately register the fact that Lydia had drawn back to avoid wrinkling her green silk dress. But she did register her mother’s first question.

“Have you heard from Robert yet?”

Nina stiffened. Oh please, she thought. Please don’t do this to me.

“I’m sure this can all be worked out,” said Lydia. “If you’d just sit down with Robert and have an honest discussion about what’s bothering him—”

Nina pulled away. “I’m not going to sit down with Robert,” she said. “And as for an honest discussion, I’m not sure we ever had one.”

“Now, darling, it’s natural to be angry—”

“But aren’t you angry, Mother? Can’t you be angry for me?”

“Well, yes. But I can’t see tossing Robert aside just because—”

The sudden clearing of a male throat made Lydia glance up at Sam, who was standing outside the doorway.

“I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police,” he said. “You’re Mrs. Cormier?”

“The name’s now Warrenton.” Lydia frowned at him. “What is this all about? What do the police have to do with this?”

“There was an incident at the church, ma’am. We’re investigating.

“An incident?”

“The church was bombed.”

Lydia stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious. It went off at 2:45 this afternoon. Luckily no one was hurt. But if the wedding had been held…”

Lydia paled to a sickly white. She took a step back, her voice failing her.

“Mrs. Warrenton,” said Sam, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Nina didn’t stay to listen. She had heard too many questions already. She climbed upstairs to the spare bedroom, where she had left her suitcase—the suitcase she’d packed for St. John Island. Inside were her bathing suits and sundresses and tanning lotion. Everything she’d thought she needed for a week in paradise.

She took off the wedding dress and carefully draped it over an armchair where it lay white and lifeless. Useless. She looked at the contents of her suitcase, at the broken dreams packed neatly between layers of tissue paper. That’s when the last vestiges of control failed her. Dressed only in her underwear, she sat down on the bed. Alone, in silence, she finally allowed the grief to sweep over her.

And she wept.

LYDIA WARRENTON was nothing like her daughter. Sam had seen it the moment the older woman opened the front door. Flawlessly made up, elegantly coiffed, her slender frame shown to full advantage by the green gown, Lydia looked like no mother of the bride he’d ever seen. There was a physical resemblance, of course. Both Lydia and Nina had the same black hair, the same dark, thickly lashed eyes. But while Nina had a softness about her, a vulnerability, Lydia was standoffish, as though surrounded by some protective force field that would zap anyone who ventured too close. She was definitely a looker, not only thin but also rich, judging by the room he was now standing in.

The house was a veritable museum of antiques. He had noticed a Mercedes parked in the driveway. And the living room, into which he’d just been ushered, had a spectacular ocean view. A million-dollar view. Lydia sat down primly on a brocade sofa and motioned him toward a wing chair. The needlepoint fabric was so pristine-looking he had the urge to inspect his clothes before sinking onto the cushion.

“A bomb,” murmured Lydia, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe it. Who would bomb a church?”

“It’s not the first bombing we’ve had in town.”

She looked at him, bewildered. “You mean the warehouse? The one last week? I read that had something to do with organized crime.”

“That was the theory.”

“This was a church. How can they possibly be connected?”

“We don’t see the link either, Mrs. Warrenton. We’re trying to find out if there is one. Maybe you can help us. Do you know of any reason someone would want to bomb the Good Shepherd Church?”

“I know nothing about that church. It’s not one I attend. It was my daughter’s choice to get married there.”

“You sound as if you don’t approve.”

She shrugged. “Nina has her own odd way of doing things. I’d have chosen a more…established institution. And a longer guest list. But that’s Nina. She wanted to keep it small and simple.”

Simple was definitely not Lydia Warrenton’s style, thought Sam, gazing around the room.

“So to answer your question, Detective, I can’t think of any reason to bomb Good Shepherd.”

“What time did you leave the church?”

“A little after two. When it became apparent there wasn’t anything I could do for Nina.”

“While you were waiting, did you happen to notice anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”

“There were just the people you’d expect. The florists, the minister. The wedding party.”

“Names?”

“There was me. My daughter Wendy. The best man—I don’t remember his name. My ex-husband, George, and his latest wife.”

“Latest.”

She sniffed. “Daniella. His fourth so far.”

“What about your husband?”

She paused. “Edward was delayed. His plane was two hours late leaving Chicago.”

“So he hadn’t even reached town yet?”

“No. But he planned to attend the reception.”

Again, Sam glanced around the room, at the antiques. The view. “May I ask what your husband does for a living, Mrs. Warrenton?”

“He’s president of Ridley-Warrenton.”

“The logging company?”

“That’s right.”

That explained the house and the Mercedes, thought Sam. Ridley-Warrenton was one of the largest landowners in northern Maine. Their forest products, from raw lumber to fine paper, were shipped around the world.

His next question was unavoidable. “Mrs. Warrenton,” he asked, “does your husband have any enemies?”

Her response surprised him. She laughed. “Anyone with money has enemies, Detective.”

“Can you name anyone in particular?”

“You’d have to ask Edward.”

“I will,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “As soon as your husband’s back in town, could you have him give me a call?”

“My husband’s a busy man.”

“So am I, ma’am,” he answered. With a curt nod, he turned and left the house.

In the driveway, he sat in his Taurus for a moment, gazing up at the mansion. It was, without a doubt, one of the most impressive homes he’d ever been in. Not that he was all that familiar with mansions. Samuel Navarro was the son of a Boston cop who was himself the son of a Boston cop. At the age of twelve, he’d moved to Portland with his newly widowed mother. Nothing came easy for them, a fact of life which his mother resignedly accepted.

Sam had not been so accepting. His adolescence consisted of five long years of rebellion. Fistfights in the school yard. Sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom. Loitering with the rough-and-tumble crowd that hung out in Monument Square. There’d been no mansions in his childhood.

He started the car and drove away. The investigation was just beginning; he and Gillis had a long night ahead of them. There was still the minister to interview, as well as the florist, the best man, the matron of honor, and the groom.

Most of all, the groom.

Dr. Robert Bledsoe, after all, was the one who’d called off the wedding. His decision, by accident or design, had saved the lives of dozens of people. That struck Sam as just a little bit too fortunate. Had Bledsoe received some kind of warning? Had he been the intended target?

Was that the real reason he’d left his bride at the altar?

Nina Cormier’s image came vividly back to mind. Hers wasn’t a face he’d be likely to forget. It was more than just those big brown eyes, that kissable mouth. It was her pride that impressed him the most. The sort of pride that kept her chin up, her jaw squared, even as the tears were falling. For that he admired her. No whining, no self-pity. The woman had been humiliated, abandoned, and almost blown to smithereens. Yet she’d had enough spunk left to give Sam an occasional what-for. He found that both irritating and amusing. For a woman who’d probably grown up with everything handed to her on a silver platter, she was a tough little survivor.

Today she’d been handed a heaping dish of crow, and she’d eaten it just fine, thank you. Without a whimper.

Surprising, surprising woman.

He could hardly wait to hear what Dr. Robert Bledsoe had to say about her.

IT WAS AFTER five o’clock when Nina finally emerged from her mother’s guest bedroom. Calm, composed, she was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She’d left her wedding dress hanging in the closet; she didn’t even want to look at it again. Too many bad memories had attached themselves like burrs to the fabric.

Downstairs she found her mother sitting alone in the living room, nursing a highball. Detective Navarro was gone. Lydia raised the drink to her lips, and by the clinking of ice cubes in the glass, Nina could tell that Lydia’s hands were shaking.

“Mother?” said Nina.

At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Lydia’s head jerked up. “You startled me.”

“I think I’ll be leaving now. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lydia gave a shudder. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “How about you?”

“I’ll be okay. I just need some time. Away from Robert.”

Mother and daughter looked at each other for a moment, neither one speaking, neither one knowing what to say. This was the way things had always been between them. Nina had grown up hungry for affection. Her mother had always been too self-absorbed to grant it. And this was the result: the silence of two women who scarcely knew or understood each other. The distance between them couldn’t be measured by years, but by universes.

Nina watched her mother take another deep swallow of her drink. “How did it go?” she asked. “With you and that detective?”

Lydia shrugged. “What’s there to say? He asked questions, I answered them.”

“Did he tell you anything? About who might have done it?”

“No. He was tight as a clam. Not much in the way of charm.”

Nina couldn’t disagree. She’d known ice cubes that were warmer than Sam Navarro. But then, the man was just doing his job. He wasn’t paid to be charming.

“You can stay for dinner, if you’d like,” said Lydia. “Why don’t you? I’ll have the cook—”

“That’s all right, Mother. Thank you, anyway.”

Lydia looked up at her. “It’s because of Edward, isn’t it?”

“No, Mother. Really.”

“That’s why you hardly ever visit. Because of him. I wish you could get to like him.” Lydia sighed and looked down at her drink. “He’s been very good to me, very generous. You have to grant him that much.”

When Nina thought of her stepfather, generous was not the first adjective that came to mind. No, ruthless would be the word she’d choose. Ruthless and controlling. She didn’t want to talk about Edward Warrenton.

She turned and started toward the door. “I have to get home and pack my things. Since it’s obvious I’ll be moving out.”

“Couldn’t you and Robert patch things up somehow?”

“After today?” Nina shook her head.

“If you just tried harder? Maybe it’s something you could talk about. Something you could change.”

“Mother. Please.”

Lydia sank back. “Anyway,” she said, “you are invited to dinner. For what it’s worth.”

“Maybe some other time,” Nina said softly. “Bye, Mother.”

She heard no answer as she walked out the front door.

Her Honda was parked at the side of the house, where she’d left it that morning. The morning of what should have been her wedding. How proudly Lydia had smiled at her as they’d sat together in the limousine! It was the way a mother should look at her daughter. The way Lydia never had before.

And probably never would again.

That ride to the church, the smiles, the laughter, seemed a lifetime away. She started the Honda and pulled out of her mother’s driveway.

In a daze she drove south, toward Hunts Point. Toward Robert’s house. What had been their house. The road was winding, and she was functioning on automatic pilot, steering without thought along the curves. What if Robert hadn’t really left town? she thought. What if he’s home? What would they say to each other?

Try: goodbye.

She gripped the steering wheel and thought of all the things she’d like to tell him. All the ways she felt used and betrayed. A whole year kept going through her head. One whole bloody year of my life.

Only as she swung past Smugglers Cove did she happen to glance in the rearview mirror. A black Ford was behind her. The same Ford that had been there a few miles back, near Delano Park. At any other time, she would have thought nothing of it. But today, after the possibilities Detective Navarro had raised…

She shook off a vague sense of uneasiness and kept driving. She turned onto Ocean House Drive.

The Ford did too. There was no reason for alarm. Ocean House Drive was, after all, a main road in the neighborhood. Another driver might very well have reason to turn onto it as well.

Just to ease her anxiety, she took the left turnoff, toward Peabbles Point. It was a lonely road, not heavily traveled. Here’s where she and the Ford would surely part company.

The Ford took the same turnoff.

Now she was getting frightened.

She pressed the accelerator. The Honda gained speed. At fifty miles per hour, she knew she was taking the curves too fast, but she was determined to lose the Ford. Only she wasn’t losing him. He had sped up, too. In fact, he was gaining on her.

With a sudden burst of speed, the Ford roared up right beside her. They were neck and neck, taking the curves in parallel.

He’s trying to run me off the road! she thought.

She glanced sideways, but all she could see through the other car’s tinted window was the driver’s silhouette. Why are you doing this? she wanted to scream at him. Why?

The Ford suddenly swerved toward her. The thump of the other car’s impact almost sent the Honda spinning out of control. Nina fought to keep her car on course.

Her fingers clamped more tightly around the wheel. Damn this lunatic! She had to shake him off.

She hit the brakes.

The Ford shot ahead—only momentarily. It quickly slowed as well and was back beside her, swerving, bumping.

She managed another sideways glance. To her surprise, the Ford’s passenger window had been rolled down. She caught a glimpse of the driver—a male. Dark hair. Sunglasses.

In the next instant her gaze shot forward to the road, which crested fifty yards ahead.

Another car had just cleared the crest and was barreling straight toward the Ford.

Tires screeched. Nina felt one last violent thump, felt the sting of shattering glass against her face. Then suddenly she was soaring sideways.

She never lost consciousness. Even as the Honda flew off the road. Even as it tumbled over and over across shrubbery and saplings.

It came to a rest, upright, against a maple tree.

Though fully awake, Nina could not move for a moment. She was too stunned to feel pain, or even fear. All she felt was amazement that she was still alive.

Then, gradually, an awareness of discomfort seeped through the layers of shock. Her chest hurt, and her shoulder. It was the seat belt. It had saved her life, but it had also bruised her ribs.

Groaning, she pressed the belt release and felt herself collapse forward, against the steering wheel.

“Hey! Hey, lady!”

Nina turned to see a face anxiously peering through the window. It was an elderly man. He yanked open her door. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m—I think so.”

“I’d better call an ambulance.”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I am.” She took a deep breath. Her chest was sore, but that seemed to be her only injury. With the old man’s help, she climbed out of the car. Though a little unsteady, she was able to stand. She was shocked by the damage.

Her car was a mess. The driver’s door had been bashed in, the window was shattered, and the front fender was peeled off entirely.

She turned and glanced toward the road. “There was another car,” she said. “A black one—”

“You mean that damn fool who tried to pass you?”

“Where is it?”

“Took off. You oughta report that fella. Probably drunk as a skunk.”

Drunk? Nina didn’t think so. Shivering, she hugged herself and stared at the road, but she saw no sign of another car.

The black Ford had vanished.

Chapter Three

GORDON GILLIS looked up from his burger and fries. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing.” Sam hung his jacket up on the coatrack and sank into a chair behind his desk, where he sat wearily rubbing his face.

“How’s the minister doing?”

“Fine, so far. Doctors doubt it’s a heart attack. But they’ll keep him in for a day, just to be sure.”

“He didn’t have any ideas about the bombing?”

“Claims he has no enemies. And everyone I talked to seems to agree that Reverend Sullivan is a certifiable saint.” Groaning, Sam leaned back. “How ‘bout you?”

Gillis peeled off the hamburger wrapper and began to eat as he talked. “I interviewed the best man, the matron of honor and the florist. No one saw anything.”

“What about the church janitor?”

“We’re still trying to locate him. His wife says he usually gets home around six. I’ll send Cooley over to talk to him.”

“According to Reverend Sullivan, the janitor opens the front doors at 7:00 a.m. And the doors stay open all day. So anyone could’ve walked in and left a package.”

“What about the night before?” asked Gillis. “What time did he lock the doors?”

“The church secretary usually locks up. She’s a part-timer. Would’ve done it around 6:00 p.m. Unfortunately, she left for vacation this morning. Visiting family in Massachusetts. We’re still trying to get hold of…” He paused.

Gillis’s telephone was ringing. Gillis turned to answer it. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Sam watched as his partner scribbled something on a notepad, then passed it across the desk. Trundy Point Road was written on the paper.

A moment later, Gillis said, “We’ll be there,” and hung up. He was frowning.

“What is it?” asked Sam.

“Report just came in from one of the mobile units. It’s about the bride. The one at the church today.”

“Nina Cormier?”

“Her car just went off the road near Trundy Point.”

Sam sat up straight in alarm. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. They wouldn’t have called us at all, but she insisted they notify us.”

“For an accident? Why?” “She says it wasn’t an accident. She says someone tried to run her off the road.”

HER RIBS HURT, her shoulder was sore, and her face had a few cuts from flying glass. But at least her head was perfectly clear. Clear enough for her to recognize the man stepping out of that familiar blue Taurus that had just pulled up at the scene. It was that sullen detective, Sam Navarro. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

Through the gathering dusk, Nina watched as he spoke to a patrolman. They conversed for a few moments. Then, together, the two men tramped through the underbrush to view the remains of her car. As Sam paced a slow circle around the battered Honda, Nina was reminded of a stalking cat. He moved with an easy, feline grace, his gaze focused in complete concentration. At one point he stopped and crouched to look at something on the ground. Then he rose to his feet and peered more closely at the driver’s window. Or what was left of the window. He prodded the broken glass, then opened the door and climbed into the front seat. What on earth was he looking for? She could see his dark hair bobbing in and out of view. Now he seemed to be crawling all over the interior, and into the back seat. It was a good thing she had nothing to hide in there. She had no doubt that the sharp-eyed Detective Navarro could spot contraband a mile away.

At last he reemerged from her car, his hair tousled, his trousers wrinkled. He spoke again to the patrolman. Then he turned and looked in her direction.

And began to walk toward her.

At once she felt her pulse quickening. Something about this man both fascinated and frightened her. It was more than just his physical presence, which was impressive enough. It was also the way he looked at her, with a gaze that was completely neutral. That inscrutability unnerved her. Most men seemed to find Nina attractive, and they would at least make an attempt to be friendly.

This man seemed to regard her as just another homicide victim in the making. Worth his intellectual interest, but that was all.

She straightened her back and met his gaze without wavering as he approached.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“A few bruises. A few cuts. That’s all.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the ER? I can drive you.”

“I’m fine. I’m a nurse, so I think I’d know.”

“They say doctors and nurses make the worst patients. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Just to be sure.”

She gave a disbelieving laugh. “That sounds like an order.”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Detective, I really think I’d know if I was…”

She was talking to his back. The man had actually turned his back to her. He was already walking away, toward his car. “Detective!” she called.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“I don’t—This isn’t—” She sighed. “Oh, never mind,” she muttered, and followed him to his car. There was no point arguing with the man. He’d just turn his back on her again. As she slid into the passenger seat, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest. Maybe he was right after all. She knew it could take hours, or even days, for injuries to manifest themselves. She hated to admit it, but Mr. Personality was probably right about this trip to the ER.

She was too uncomfortable to say much as they drove to the hospital. It was Sam who finally broke the silence.

“So, can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

“I already gave a statement. It’s all in the police report. Someone ran me off the road.”

“Yes, a black Ford, male driver. Maine license plate.”

“Then you’ve been told the details.”

“The other witness said he thought it was a drunk driver trying to pass you on the hill. He didn’t think it was deliberate.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“When did you first see the Ford?”

“Somewhere around Smugglers Cove, I guess. I noticed that it seemed to be following me.”

“Was it weaving? Show any signs of driver impairment?”

“No. It was just…following me.”

“Could it have been behind you earlier?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is it possible it was there when you left your mother’s house?”

She frowned at him. He wasn’t looking at her, but was staring straight ahead. The tenor of his questions had taken a subtle change of course. He had started out sounding noncommittal. Maybe even skeptical. But this last question told her he was considering a possibility other than a drunk driver. A possibility that left her suddenly chilled.

“Are you suggesting he was waiting for me?”

“I’m just exploring the possibilities.”

“The other policeman thought it was a drunk driver.”

“He has his opinion.”

“What’s your opinion?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept driving in that maddeningly calm way of his. Did the man ever show any emotion? Once, just once, she’d like to see something get under that thick skin of his.

“Detective Navarro,” she said. “I pay taxes. I pay your salary. I think I deserve more than just a brush-off.”

“Oh. The old civil servant line.”

“I’ll use whatever line it takes to get an answer out of you!”

“I’m not sure you want to hear my answer.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I made a brief inspection of your car. What I found there backs up quite a bit of what you just told me. There were black paint chips on the driver’s side, indicating that the vehicle that rammed yours was, indeed, black.”

“So I’m not color blind.”

“I also noticed that the driver’s window was shattered. And that the breakage was in a starburst pattern. Not what I’d expect for a rollover accident.”

“That’s because the window was already broken when I went off the road.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember I felt flying glass. That’s how I cut my face. When the glass hit me. That was before I rolled over.”

“Are you sure?” He glanced at her. “Absolutely sure?”

“Yes. Does it make a difference?”

He let out a breath. “It makes a lot of difference,” he said softly. “It also goes along with what I found in your car.”

“In my car?” Perplexed, she shook her head. “What, exactly, did you find?”

“It was in the right passenger door—the door that was jammed against the tree. The metal was pretty crumpled; that’s why the other cops didn’t notice it. But I knew it was there somewhere. And I found it.”

“Found what?”

“A bullet hole.”

Nina felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t speak; she could only sit in shocked silence, her world rocked by the impact of his words.

He continued talking, his tone matter-of-fact. Chillingly so. He’s not human, she thought. He’s a machine. A robot.

“The bullet must have hit your window,” he said, “just to the rear of your head. That’s why the glass shattered. Then the bullet passed at a slightly forward angle, missed you completely, and made a hole in the plastic molding of the opposite door, where it’s probably still lodged. It’ll be retrieved. By tonight, we’ll know the caliber. And possibly the make of the gun. What I still don’t know—what you’ll have to tell me—is why someone’s trying to kill you.”

She shook her head. “It’s a mistake.”

“This guy’s going to a lot of trouble. He’s bombed a church. Tailed you. Shot at you. There’s no mistake.”

“There has to be!”

“Think of every possible person who might want to hurt you. Think, Nina.”

“I told you, I don’t have any enemies!”

“You must have.”

“I don’t! I don’t…” She gave a sob and clutched her head in her hands. “I don’t,” she whispered.

After a long silence he said, gently, “I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to accept—”

“You don’t know.” She raised her head and looked at him. “You have no idea, Detective. I’ve always thought people liked me. Or—at least—they didn’t hate me. I try so hard to get along with everyone. And now you’re telling me there’s someone out there—someone who wants to…” She swallowed and stared ahead, at the darkening road.

Sam let the silence stretch on between them. He knew she was in too fragile a state right now to press her with more questions. And he suspected she was hurting more, both physically and emotionally, than she was letting on. Judging by the condition of her car, her body had taken a brutal beating this afternoon.

In the ER, he paced the waiting room while Nina was examined by the doctor on duty. A few X rays later, she emerged looking even more pale than when she’d entered. It was reality sinking in, he thought. The danger was genuine, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.

Back in his car, she sat in numb silence. He kept glancing sideways at her, waiting for her to burst into tears, into hysteria, but she remained unnervingly quiet. It concerned him. This wasn’t healthy.

He said, “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Is there somewhere you can go?”

Her response was barely a shrug.

“Your mother’s?” he suggested. “I’ll take you home to pack a suitcase and—”

“No. Not my mother’s,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“I…don’t want to make things…uncomfortable for her.”

“For her?” He frowned. “Pardon me for asking this, but isn’t that what mothers are for? To pick us up and dust us off?”

“My mother’s marriage isn’t…the most supportive one around.”

“She can’t welcome her own daughter home?”

“It’s not her home, Detective. It’s her husband’s. And he doesn’t approve of me. To be honest, the feeling’s mutual.” She gazed straight ahead, and in that moment, she struck him as so very brave. And so very alone.

“Since the day they got married, Edward Warren-ton has controlled every detail of my mother’s life. He bullies her, and she takes it without a whimper. Because his money makes it all worthwhile for her. I just couldn’t stand watching it any longer. So one day I told him off.”

“Sounds like that’s exactly what you should have done.”

“It didn’t do a thing for family harmony. I’m sure that’s why he went on that business trip to Chicago. So he could conveniently skip my wedding.” Sighing, she tilted her head back against the headrest. “I know I shouldn’t be annoyed with my mother, but I am. I’m annoyed that she’s never stood up to him.”

“Okay. So I don’t take you to your mother’s house. What about dear old dad? Do you two get along?”

She gave a nod. A small one. “I suppose I could stay with him.”

“Good. Because there’s no way I’m going to let you be alone tonight.” The sentence was scarcely out of his mouth when he realized he shouldn’t have said it. It sounded too much as if he cared, as if feeling were getting mixed up with duty. He was too good a cop, too cautious a cop, to let that happen.

He could feel her surprised gaze through the darkness of the car.

In a tone colder than he’d intended, he said, “You may be my only link to this bombing. I need you alive and well for the investigation.”

“Oh. Of course.” She looked straight ahead again. And she didn’t say another word until they’d reached her house on Ocean View Drive.

As soon as he’d parked, she started to get out of the car. He reached for her arm and pulled her back inside. “Wait.”

“What is it?”

“Just sit for a minute.” He glanced up and down the road, scanning for other cars, other people. Anything at all suspicious. The street was deserted.

“Okay,” he said. He got out and circled around to open her door. “Pack one suitcase. That’s all we have time for.”

“I wasn’t planning to bring along the furniture.”

“I’m just trying to keep this short and sweet. If someone’s really looking for you, this is where they’ll come. So let’s not hang around, all right?”

That remark, meant to emphasize the danger, had its intended effect. She scooted out of the car and up the front walk in hyperspeed. He had to convince her to wait on the porch while he made a quick search of the house.

A moment later he poked his head out the door. “All clear.”

While she packed a suitcase, Sam wandered about the living room. It was an old but spacious house, tastefully furnished, with a view of the sea. Just the sort of house one would expect a doctor to live in. He went over to the grand piano—a Steinway—and tapped out a few notes. “Who plays the piano?” he called out.

“Robert,” came the answer from the bedroom. “Afraid I have a tin ear.”

He focused on a framed photograph set on the piano. It was a shot of a couple, smiling. Nina and some blond, blue-eyed man. Undoubtedly Robert Bledsoe. The guy, it seemed, had everything: looks, money and a medical degree. And the woman. A woman he no longer wanted. Sam crossed the room to a display of diplomas, hanging on the wall. All of them Robert Bledsoe’s. Groton prep. B.A. Dartmouth. M.D. Harvard. Dr. Bledsoe was Ivy League all the way. He was every mother’s dream son-in-law. No wonder Lydia Warrenton had urged her daughter to patch things up.

The phone rang, the sound so abrupt and startling, Sam felt an instant rush of adrenaline.

“Should I get it?” Nina asked. She was standing in the doorway, her face drawn and tense.

He nodded. “Answer it.”

She crossed to the telephone. After a second’s hesitation, she picked up the receiver. He moved right beside her, listening, as she said, “Hello?”

No one answered.

“Hello?” Nina repeated. “Who is this? Hello?”

There was a click. Then, a moment later, the dial tone.

Nina looked up at Sam. She was standing so close to him, her hair, like black silk, brushed his face. He found himself staring straight into those wide eyes of hers, found himself reacting to her nearness with an unexpected surge of male longing.

This isn’t supposed to happen. I can’t let it happen.

He took a step back, just to put space between them. Even though they were now standing a good three feet apart, he could still feel the attraction. Not far enough apart, he thought. This woman was getting in the way of his thinking clearly, logically. And that was dangerous.

He looked down and suddenly noticed the telephone answering machine was blinking. He said, “You have messages.”

“Pardon?”

“Your answering machine. It’s recorded three messages.”

Dazedly she looked down at the machine. Automatically she pressed the Play button.

There were three beeps, followed by three silences, and then dial tones.

Seemingly paralyzed, she stared at the machine. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do they call and hang up?”

“To see if you’re home.”

The implication of his statement at once struck her full force. She flinched away from the phone as if it had burned her. “I have to get out of here,” she said, and hurried back into the bedroom.

He followed her. She was tossing clothes into a suitcase, not bothering to fold anything. Slacks and blouses and lingerie in one disorganized pile.

“Just the essentials,” he said. “Let’s leave.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She whirled around and ran into the bathroom. He heard her rattling in the cabinets, collecting toiletries. A moment later she reemerged with a bulging makeup bag, which she tossed in the suitcase.

He closed and latched it for her. “Let’s go.”

In the car, she sat silent and huddled against the seat as he drove. He kept checking the rearview mirror, to see if they were being followed, but he saw no other headlights. No signs of pursuit.

“Relax, we’re okay,” he said. “I’ll just get you to your dad’s house, and you’ll be fine.”

“And then what?” she said softly. “How long do I hide there? For weeks, months?”

“As long as it takes for us to crack this case.”

She shook her head, a sad gesture of bewilderment. “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe it’ll become clear when we talk to your fiancé. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“It seems that I’m the last person Robert wanted to confide in…” Hugging herself, she stared out the window. “His note said he was leaving town for a while. I guess he just needed to get away. From me…”

“From you? Or from someone else?”

She shook her head. “There’s so much I don’t know. So much he never bothered to tell me. God, I wish I understood. I could handle this. I could handle anything. If only I understood.”

What kind of man is Robert Bledsoe? Sam wondered. What kind of man would walk away from this woman? Leave her alone to face the danger left in his wake?

“Whoever made that hang-up call may pay a visit to your house,” he said. “I’d like to keep an eye on it. See who turns up.”

She nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“May I have access?”

“You mean…get inside?”

“If our suspect shows up, he may try to break in. I’d like to be waiting for him.”

She stared at him. “You could get yourself killed.”

“Believe me, Miss Cormier, I’m not the heroic type. I don’t take chances.”

“But if he does show up—”

“I’ll be ready.” He flashed her a quick grin for reassurance. She didn’t look reassured. If anything, she looked more frightened than ever.

For me? he wondered. And that, inexplicably, lifted his spirits. Terrific. Next thing he knew, he’d be putting his neck in a noose, and all because of a pair of big brown eyes. This was just the kind of situation cops were warned to avoid: assuming the role of hero to some fetching female. It got men killed.

It could get him killed.

“You shouldn’t do this by yourself,” she said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have backup.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You promise? You won’t take any chances?”

“What are you, my mother?” he snapped in exasperation.

She took her keys out of her purse and slapped them on the dashboard. “No, I’m not your mother,” she retorted. “But you’re the cop in charge. And I need you alive and well to crack this case.”

He deserved that. She’d been concerned about his safety, and he’d responded with sarcasm. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was, whenever he looked in her eyes, he had the overwhelming urge to turn tail and run. Before he was trapped.

Moments later, they drove past the wrought iron gates of her father’s driveway. Nina didn’t even wait for Sam to open her door. She got out of the car and started up the stone steps. Sam followed, carrying her suitcase. And ogling the house. It was huge—even more impressive than Lydia Warrenton’s home, and it had the Rolls-Royce of security systems. Tonight, at least, Nina should be safe.

The doorbell chimed like a church bell; he could hear it echoing through what must be dozens of rooms. The door was opened by a blonde—and what a blonde! Not much older than thirty, she was wearing a shiny spandex leotard that hugged every taut curve. A healthy sweat sheened her face, and from some other room came the thumpy music of an exercise video.

“Hello, Daniella,” Nina said quietly.

Daniella assumed a look of sympathy that struck Sam as too automatic to be genuine. “Oh Nina, I’m so sorry about what happened today! Wendy called and told us about the church. Was anyone hurt?”

“No. No, thank God.” Nina paused, as though afraid to ask the next question. “Do you think I could spend the night with you?”

The expression of sympathy faded. Daniella looked askance at the suitcase Sam was carrying. “I, uh…let me talk to your Dad. He’s in the hot tub right now and—”

“Nina has no choice. She has to stay the night,” said Sam. He stepped past Daniella, into the house. “It’s not safe for her to be alone.”

Daniella’s gaze shifted to Sam, and he saw the vague spark of interest in those flat blue eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“This is Detective Navarro,” said Nina. “He’s with the Portland Bomb Squad. And this,” she said to Sam, “is Daniella Cormier. My, uh…father’s wife.”

Stepmother was the appropriate term, but this stunning blonde didn’t look like anybody’s mother. And the look she was giving him was anything but maternal.

Daniella tilted her head, a gesture he recognized as both inquisitive and flirtatious. “So, you’re a cop?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bomb Squad? Is that really what you think happened at the church? A bomb?”

“I’m not free to talk about it,” he said. “Not while the investigation’s underway.” Smoothly he turned to Nina. “If you’re okay for the night, I’ll be leaving. Be sure to close those driveway gates. And activate the burglar alarm. I’ll check back with you in the morning.”

As he gave a nod of goodbye, his gaze locked with Nina’s. It was only the briefest of looks, but once again he was taken by surprise at his instinctive response to this woman. It was an attraction so powerful he felt himself at once struggling to pull away.

He did. With a curt good-night, he walked out the front door.

Outside, in the darkness, he stood for a moment surveying the house. It seemed secure enough. With two other people inside, Nina should be safe. Still, he wondered whether those particular two people would be of much help in a crisis. A father soaking in a hot tub and a spandex-and-hormones stepmother didn’t exactly inspire feelings of confidence. Nina, at least, was an intelligent woman; he knew she would be alert for signs of danger.

He drove back to Robert Bledsoe’s house on Ocean View Drive and left the car on a side street around the corner.

With Nina’s keys, he let himself in the front door and called Gillis to arrange for a surveillance team to patrol the area. Then he closed all the curtains and settled down to wait. It was nine o’clock.

At nine-thirty, he was already restless. He paced the living room, then roamed the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway. Any stalker watching the house would expect lights to go on and off in different rooms, at different times. Maybe their man was just waiting for the residents to go to bed.

Sam turned off the living room lights and went into the bedroom.

Nina had left the top dresser drawer hanging open. Sam, pacing the carpet, kept walking back and forth past that open drawer with its tempting glimpse of lingerie. Something black and silky lay on top, and one corner trailed partway out of the drawer. He couldn’t resist the impulse. He halted by the dresser, picked up the item of lingerie, and held it up.

It was a short little spaghetti-strap thing, edged with lace, and designed to show a lot. An awful lot. He tossed it back in and slammed the drawer shut.

He was getting distracted again. This shouldn’t be happening. Something about Nina Cormier, and his reaction to her, had him behaving like a damn rookie.

Before, in the line of duty, he’d brushed up against other women, including the occasional stunner. Women like that spandex bimbo, Daniella Cormier, Nina’s stepmother. He’d managed to keep his trousers zipped up and his head firmly screwed on. It was both a matter of self-control as well as self-preservation. The women he met on the job were usually in some sort of trouble, and it was too easy for them to consider Sam their white knight, the masculine answer to all their problems.

It was a fantasy that never lasted. Sooner or later the knight gets stripped of his armor and they’d see him for what he really was: just a cop. Not rich, not brilliant. Not much of anything, in fact, to recommend him.

It had happened to him once. Just once. She’d been an aspiring actress trying to escape an abusive boyfriend; he’d been a rookie assigned to watch over her. The chemistry was right. The situation was right. But the girl was all wrong. For a few heady weeks, he’d been in love, had thought she was in love.

Then she’d dropped Sam like a hot potato.

He’d learned a hard but lasting lesson: romance and police work did not mix. He had never again crossed that line while on the job, and he wasn’t about to do it with Nina Cormier, either.

He turned away from the dresser and was crossing to the opposite end of the room when he heard a thump.

It came from somewhere near the front of the house.

Instantly he killed the bedroom lights and reached for his gun. He eased into the hallway. At the doorway to the living room he halted, his gaze quickly sweeping the darkness.

The streetlight shone in dimly through the windows. He saw no movement in the room, no suspicious shadows.

There was a scraping sound, a soft jingle. It came from the front porch.

Sam shifted his aim to the front door. He was crouched and ready to fire as the door swung open. The silhouette of a man loomed against the backlight of the streetlamp.

“Police!” Sam yelled. “Freeze!”

Chapter Four

THE SILHOUETTE FROZE.

“Hands up,” ordered Sam. “Come on, hands up!”

Both hands shot up. “Don’t hurt me!” came a terrified plea.

Sam edged over to the light switch and flipped it on. The sudden glare left both men blinking. Sam took one look at the man standing in front of him and cursed.

Footsteps pounded up the porch steps and two uniformed cops burst through the doorway, pistols drawn. “We got him covered, Navarro!” one of them yelled.

“You’re right on time,” muttered Sam in disgust. “Forget it. This isn’t the guy.” He holstered his gun and looked at the tall blond man, who was still wearing a look of terror on his face. “I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland Police. I presume you’re Dr. Robert Bledsoe?”

Nervously Robert cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s going on? Why are you people in my house?”

“Where’ve you been all day, Dr. Bledsoe?”

“I’ve been—uh, may I put my hands down?”

“Of course.”

Robert lowered his hands and glanced cautiously over his shoulder at the two cops standing behind him. “Do they, uh, really need to keep pointing those guns at me?”

“You two can leave,” Sam said to the cops. “I’m all right here.”

“What about the surveillance?” one of them asked. “Want to call it off?”

“I doubt anything’s coming down tonight. But hang around the neighborhood. Just until morning.”

The two cops left. Sam said, again, “Where’ve you been, Dr. Bledsoe?”

With two guns no longer pointed at his back, Robert’s terror had given way to righteous anger. He glared at Sam. “First, you tell me why you’re in my house! What is this, a police state? Cops breaking in and threatening homeowners? You have no authority to be trespassing on my property. I’ll have your ass in a sling if you don’t produce a search warrant right now!”

“I don’t have a warrant.”

“You don’t?” Robert gave an unpleasantly triumphant laugh. “You entered my house without a warrant? You break in here and threaten me with your macho cop act?”

“I didn’t break in,” Sam told him calmly. “I let myself in the front door.”

“Oh, sure.”

Sam pulled out Nina’s keys and held them up in front of Robert. “With these.”

“Those—those keys belong to my fiancée! How did you get them?”

“She lent them to me.”

“She what?” Robert’s voice had risen to a yelp of anger. “Where is Nina? She had no right to hand over the keys to my house.”

“Correction, Doctor. Nina Cormier was living here with you. That makes her a legal resident of this house. It gives her the right to authorize police entry, which she did.” Sam eyed the man squarely. “Now, I’ll ask the question a third time. Where have you been, Doctor?”

“Away,” snapped Robert.

“Could you be more specific?”

“All right, I went to Boston. I needed to get out of town for a while.”

“Why?”

“What is this, an interrogation? I don’t have to talk to you! In fact I shouldn’t talk to you until I call my lawyer.” He turned to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

“You don’t need a lawyer. Unless you’ve committed a crime.”

“A crime?” Robert spun around and stared at him. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But I do need answers. Are you aware of what happened in the church today?”

Robert replaced the receiver. Soberly he nodded. “I…I heard there was some sort of explosion. It was on the news. That’s why I came back early. I was worried someone might’ve been hurt.”

“Luckily, no one was. The church was empty at the time it happened.”

Robert gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said softly. He stood with his hand still on the phone, as though debating whether to pick it up again. “Do the police—do you—know what caused it?”

“Yes. It was a bomb.”

Robert’s chin jerked up. He stared at Sam. Slowly he sank into the nearest chair. “All I’d heard was—the radio said—it was an explosion. There was nothing about a bomb.”

“We haven’t made a public statement yet.”

Robert looked up at him. “Why the hell would anyone bomb a church?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. If the wedding had taken place, dozens of people might be dead right now. Nina told me you’re the one who called it off. Why did you?”

“I just couldn’t go through with it.” Robert dropped his head in his hands. “I wasn’t ready to get married.”

“So your reason was entirely personal?”

“What else would it be?” Robert suddenly looked up with an expression of stunned comprehension. “Oh, my God. You didn’t think the bomb had something to do with me?”

“It did cross my mind. Consider the circumstances. You cancelled the wedding without warning. And then you skipped town. Of course we wondered about your motives. Whether you’d received some kind of threat and decided to run.”

“No, that’s not at all what happened. I called it off because I didn’t want to get married.”

“Mind telling me why?”

Robert’s face tightened. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he answered. Abruptly he rose from the chair and strode over to the liquor cabinet. There he poured himself a shot of Scotch and stood gulping it, not looking at Sam.

“I’ve met your fiancée,” stated Sam. “She seems like a nice woman. Bright, attractive.” I’m sure as hell attracted to her, he couldn’t help adding to himself.

“You’re asking why I left her at the altar, aren’t you?” said Robert.

“Why did you?”

Robert finished off his drink and poured himself another.

“Did you two have an argument?”

“No.”

“What was it, Dr. Bledsoe? Cold feet? Boredom?” Sam paused. “Another woman?”

Robert turned and glared at him. “This is none of your damn business. Get out of my house.”

“If you insist. But I’ll be talking to you again.” Sam crossed to the front door, then stopped and turned back. “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt your fiancée?”

“No.”

“Anyone who’d want her dead?”

“What a ridiculous question.”

“Someone tried to run her car off the road this afternoon.”

Robert jerked around and stared at him. He looked genuinely startled. “Nina? Who did?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. It may or may not be connected to the bombing. Do you have any idea at all what’s going on? Who might try to hurt her?”

There was a split second’s hesitation before Robert answered. “No. No one I can think of. Where is she?”

“She’s in a safe place for tonight. But she can’t stay in hiding forever. So if you think of anything, give me a call. If you still care about her.”

Robert didn’t say anything.

Sam turned and left the house.

Driving home, he used his car phone to dial Gillis. His partner, predictably, was still at his desk. “The bridegroom’s back in town,” Sam told him. “He claims he has no idea why the church was bombed.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gillis drawled.

“Anything new turn up?”

“Yeah. We’re missing a janitor.”

“What?”

“The church janitor. The one who unlocked the building this morning. We’ve been trying to track him down all evening. He never got home tonight.”

Sam felt his pulse give a little gallop of excitement. “Interesting.”

“We’ve already got an APB out. The man’s name is Jimmy Brogan. And he has a record. Petty theft four years ago and two OUI’s, that kind of stuff. Nothing major. I sent Cooley out to talk to the wife and check the house.”

“Does Brogan have any explosives experience?”

“Not that we can determine. The wife swears up and down that he’s clean. And he’s always home for dinner.”

“Give me more, Gillis. Give me more.”

“That’s all I have to give, unless you want me to slit open a vein. Right now I’m bushed and I’m going home.”

“Okay, call it a day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

All the way home, Sam’s mind was churning with facts. A cancelled wedding. A missing church janitor. An assassin in a black Ford.

And a bomb.

Where did Nina Cormier fit in this crazy thicket of events?

It was eleven-thirty when he finally arrived home. He let himself in the front door, stepped into the house, and turned on the lights. The familiar clutter greeted him. What a god-awful mess. One of these days he’d have to clean up the place. Or maybe he should just move; that’d be easier.

He walked through the living room, picking up dirty laundry and dishes as he went. He left the dishes in the kitchen sink, threw the laundry in the washing machine, and started the wash cycle. A Saturday night, and the swinging bachelor does his laundry. Wow. He stood in his kitchen, listening to the machine rumble, thinking about all the things he could do to make this house more of a home. Furniture, maybe? It was a good, sound little house, but he kept comparing it to Robert Bledsoe’s house with its Steinway piano, the sort of house any woman would be delighted to call home.

Hell, Sam wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if one was crazy enough to move in with him. He’d been a bachelor too long, alone too long. There’d been the occasional woman, of course, but none of them had ever lasted. Too often, he had to admit, the fault lay with him. Or with his work. They couldn’t understand why any man in his right mind would actually choose to stay with this insane job of bombs and bombers. They took it as a personal affront that he wouldn’t quit the job and chose them instead.

Maybe he’d just never found a woman who made him want to quit.

And this is the result, he thought, gazing wearily at the basket of unfolded clothes. The swinging bachelor life.

He left the washing machine to finish its cycle and headed off to bed.

As usual, alone.

THE LIGHTS WERE ON at 318 Ocean View Drive. Someone was home. The Cormier woman? Robert Bledsoe? Or both of them?

Driving slowly past the house in his green Jeep Cherokee, he took a good long look at the house. He noted the dense shrubbery near the windows, the shadow of pine and birch trees ringing both edges of the property. Plenty of cover. Plenty of concealment.

Then he noticed the unmarked car parked a block away. It was backlit by a streetlamp, and he could see the silhouettes of two men sitting inside. Police, he thought. They were watching the house.

Tonight was not the time to do it.

He rounded the corner and drove on.

This matter could wait. It was only a bit of cleanup, a loose end that he could attend to in his spare time.

He had other, more important work to complete, and only a week in which to do it.

He drove on, toward the city.

AT 9:00 a.m., the guards came to escort Billy “The Snowman” Binford from his jail cell.

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