From: Delphi@oracle.org

To: C_Evans@athena.edu

Re: investigative reporter, Winter Archer

Christine,

I understand that the recent kidnappings at Athena Academy were just the first unraveling threads of a much larger web. Looking at the information you sent me, I have to agree with you. It seems Marion Gracelyn, Athena Academy’s founder, may have had a formidable enemy, one who arranged for Marion’s murder. One who is still plaguing Athena’s students and graduates.

The incidents leading up to Marion’s murder—and our current situation—are most likely buried in the past. Who better to deal with old secrets than Winter Archer? She’s uncovered older lies than these. Give her a call. Maybe her research into Marion’s life will lead us closer to our enemy.

D.

Dear Reader,

I’ve been a part of Athena Force since the beginning, so I felt really honored to write the story of Athena Academy’s matriarch, Marion Gracelyn. As you’ll discover, Marion’s story is also the story of Athena Force’s greatest enemy, a deadly female assassin who has plotted against Marion and her dreams since 1968.

To me, a veteran Athena Force author, Marion Gracelyn has always been a real person. It was like someone I’d heard a lot about and just happened to miss at critical junctures. Getting the chance to step back into 1968 and tell Marion’s story has been a blast. And I have to tell you, I regretted not being able to incorporate one of the most important things that happened that year: The ’68 Comeback Special of Elvis Presley. No one but no one wears black leather like the King of Rock and Roll!

Marion was a role model back then, one of the first female assistant district attorneys. And her love interest, Adam Gracelyn, was, as it turns out, anything but senatorial material back in his early days. They were a definite match, and I enjoyed watching them meet on opposite sides of the legal table, fall in love despite that, and take on the most dangerous killer either of them had ever faced.

Of course, we wouldn’t know about Marion’s story without the research of Athena grad Winter Archer, whose own love affair with David Gracelyn begged to be told. So there! You’re getting two love stories for the price of one. Enjoy!

Meredith Fletcher

Vendetta

Meredith Fletcher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MEREDITH FLETCHER

maintains a healthy interest in travel and history. She’s been to the top of Pike’s Peak and to the bottom of Carlsbad Caverns. She’s seen the Reversing Falls in St. John, New Brunswick (and eaten purple seaweed) and snorkeled plane crashes in Cozumel.

She comes from a large family and loves sitting at the table while everyone shares their stories. She’s also an avid reader and movie enthusiast, enjoying every love story from Casablanca to Spider Man 3, which she firmly maintains is a love story in spite of all the trappings of superheroes.

To the intelligent and generous women who make Athena Force fly: Natashya Wilson, Tara Parsons and Stacy Boyd.

And to my fellow writers in suspense and thrills: Rachel Caine and Nancy Holder.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 1

Athena Academy

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Now

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Winter Archer curbed the indignation she felt as she locked eyes with the tall, handsome man standing at the office window.

“It’s not my place to trust you, Miss Archer,” he replied coolly. The reply was tactful. Exactly the way Winter would expect a United States Attorney General to say it.

His name was David Gracelyn. Winter remembered him from the time she’d spent at Athena Academy. She’d been a student then, barely into her teens. He was a few years older than her, but that gap wasn’t so pronounced these days as it had been back then. Back then, four years had separated them into different worlds.

In those days David Gracelyn had been a senior at Phoenix, attending a public school at his insistence so he could play competitive baseball. His parents hadn’t been fully supportive of his decision because being in the public eye had been risky.

Marion and Adam Gracelyn had been deeply enmeshed in politics. Their work hit society pages as well as front pages of papers, and they were regularly mentioned on the nightly news. Marion had also been the driving force behind Athena Academy.

After high school, David had gone on to play baseball at college as well. Winter had read about him in the newspapers and seen occasional snippets of games on the local television news. He’d been a good player. Just not a great one.

He was lean and athletic even now. Winter was willing to bet that he worked to keep himself in shape, though not out of vanity. He’d always had that competitive edge. Although David didn’t compete against the girls who had attended Athena, he had competed with his sister, Allison. But only because Allison had unmercifully taunted him. She’d also beaten him on several occasions.

He wore his dark brown hair short and neat, well clear of the shirt collar. His brown eyes held a sadness in them that Winter couldn’t remember being there even after his mother’s death a few years ago. Winter had returned for Marion Gracelyn’s funeral, of course. Most Athena grads had, but it had been easy to get lost in the ocean of mourners that had shown up.

Now, Winter sat in one of the comfortable chairs in front of Christine Evans’s desk. The woman was the principal of Athena Academy and had been all those years ago as well. Newspaper stories about past graduates of the academy covered the walls. Christine Evans had been part of a lot of successes. Winter took quiet pleasure in seeing that at least one of those articles concerned her career.

“If you trusted me,” Winter said to David, “you wouldn’t be here.”

A trace of irritation tightened his eyes. He turned to face her more squarely, silhouetted against the window filled with bright March sunshine. He crossed his arms over his chest and forced a smile.

“I’d hardly call my presence a declaration of distrust,” David said.

“That,” Winter told him, “is because you’re not sitting where I am.”

The look of irritation tightened into a grimace. David took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “It’s better if we wait to discuss this matter until Christine arrives.”

“The matter that Christine called me out here for?” Winter asked. “Or the fact that you don’t trust me to do whatever it is she’s going to ask me to do?”

“All of it.” David pushed back his shirtsleeve and compared the time on his watch with the wall clock. “She should have been here by now.”

Winter surveyed David, reading him effortlessly. Years of experience with interviewing politicians, murderers, good cops and bad ones had honed her natural skills.

David Gracelyn was nervous, agitated and angry. He kept his jacket on, like a knight refusing to shed his armor in a room where he should have been totally comfortable.

It’s not me that he’s concerned with, Winter decided. That meant it had to be Christine Evans. She had been one of the best friends David’s mother had ever known. She’d practically been a second mother to Allison, and Winter was certain she’d been around David a lot as well.

“Look,” Winter said, “if it helps, I don’t know why Christine called me out here. I heard about the kidnappings that took place on the campus a few weeks ago, but I’d heard that had all been resolved.” She was fishing, of course, and she figured that he probably knew it. But there was also a chance that he would offer some clue.

The kidnapping story had been covered by a number of news services, mostly because of Athena Academy’s reputation and partly because kidnappings of teenage girls generally did hit the news.

“No. It’s not about the kidnappings.” David took a breath. “Not exactly.”

And what did that mean?

Winter waited, thinking maybe he would open up about whatever it was. But he didn’t. Winter had been curious ever since she’d gotten Christine Evans’s cryptic call yesterday. That was Winter’s nature: always curious. That was part of the special skill set that made her an investigative journalist.

Christine’s short conversation had drawn Winter back to Athena Academy. She couldn’t help wondering if Christine had withheld information just to enhance Winter’s curiosity. It was possible. During her stay at Athena, Christine had gotten to know Winter well.

After a moment, she reached down into her purse and took out her iPAQ Pocket PC. She turned on the PDA, then opened up a Microsoft Word document she’d been working on during the plane trip into Phoenix.

“What are you doing?” David asked. Suspicion dripped in his words.

“Working.” Winter didn’t look up. She wrote with the stylus, watching as her script was transformed to type a heartbeat later.

“You shouldn’t be writing any of this down.”

“I’m not writing this down. I’m working on another project. I figured since the conversation wasn’t exactly pleasant that I could get something worthwhile done.”

A frown turned down David’s full lips. Winter couldn’t help noticing that they were very attractive lips.

“And what would I be writing down?” She couldn’t help needling him. Pompousness of any sort always drew out her claws.

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “In some circles you’re known to be quite creative with your writing. You…infer a lot.”

Winter bridled at that. “I infer a lot because there’s a lot people try to hide from me. Generally they’re not good enough at it. That’s why my publishers allow me to infer as much as I do. Because I get it right.”

“The school has had enough problems lately,” David said. “They don’t need old ones stirred up.”

“What old ones?”

Again, he didn’t answer. She didn’t expect that he would, but she wanted him to know that he couldn’t talk to her like she was brainless. Talking made him vulnerable. Not her.

The Athena Academy had been in the news lately. Before the kidnappings, Lorraine Miller—another Athena graduate—had been murdered. Her death had at first been ruled an accident, but subsequent investigation had revealed that as a lie.

Then there were the rumors about genetic testing, political cover-ups, and international incidents that had persisted. Pieces of a much larger story had surfaced from time to time in the news.

Winter had seen the stories and guessed at the overall larger picture, but she’d stayed away. Mostly out of respect, but she’d also been busy working on other projects. Her writing career occupied most of her time these days, and there was always something she needed to do.

She’d practically had to move heaven and earth to be here today. Just so David Gracelyn could look down his nose at you and make you think that maybe you never did get over that crush you had on him.

Winter let out a long, slow breath. She so didn’t need this. She’d only come because Christine Evans had asked her to.

“I’m here as a favor to Christine,” Winter told him, deciding to let him off the hook, “not to cause problems.”

David shot her a look of disapproval. “That’s not exactly what Henry Carlson would say, is it?”

Anger quivered through Winter then. It was one thing to question her motives, but attacking her work was another matter entirely. She was good at what she did. She enjoyed her work. Her writing defined her.

“What happened to Henry Carlson and his family is regrettable,” she said softly. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

“A lot of other people don’t see it that way.”

“People have skeletons in their closets. I didn’t put them there.”

“Maybe not, but you sure as hell don’t seem hesitant about trotting them out when you find them.”

Winter thought about that. She’d had a choice about revealing everything she’d discovered in the Carlson matter, of course. Her publisher had even had a choice in deciding whether to go to press with the book. In the end, they both decided to go forward with what she’d found out. In their minds, revealing the truth served the greater good.

“What I relayed in my book had been whispered about in Hollywood for years,” Winter told him. “Victoria Chase, Carlson’s maternal grandmother, had been suspected of being a Nazi sympathizer.”

“Those documents you found seriously hurt Carlson’s international corporate image. Wall Street bailed on him as soon as word about your book hit the streets.”

Winter knew that. She still felt badly about how it had gone. But Henry Carlson and BriteFutures Pharmaceuticals were rich enough to afford a fickle stock market for a time. In the end, Carlson was a success because he was a good businessman. His grandmother’s twin careers of Hollywood diva and German spy wouldn’t change that.

“I’m not here to defend that book, Counselor.” Winter returned her attention to the iPAQ. To her way of thinking, revealing the fact that Victoria Chase had been a Nazi spy had shown again how strange Hollywood could be, and how disillusioned and vulnerable. In the book, Winter had used the example to address some of the other bizarre behavior exhibited by stars and the Hollywood crowd.

“You need to realize that some things are better left alone,” David said.

Ah-ha! Winter squelched the sense of triumph that surged through her. Although Christine had told Winter on the phone that she preferred not to get into the matter until they could talk face-to-face, she’d given Winter the impression that the matter was of grave importance.

The whole “some things are better left alone” riff told Winter that what they were talking about was history. But whose?

“What things,” Winter asked quietly, “need to be left alone?”

David’s face reddened. Before he could respond, if he was going to, the door opened.

Christine Evans entered the room and closed the door behind her. For a moment Winter could hear the familiar noise of the outer office, computer keyboards clacking and students talking to office personnel. It took her back twenty years in a heartbeat, and she remembered how happy she’d been at Athena Academy.

And how incredibly young and naive.

“Hello, Winter,” Christine said, then cut her eyes over to David Gracelyn. “David.”

David nodded curtly.

“Hi,” Winter said in greeting.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.” Christine walked behind the desk but didn’t sit as she checked through the memos on her computer screen.

The years had been good to her, Winter decided.

Almost sixty, Christine Evans still maintained the erect military posture she’d learned while serving in the United States Army. Short-cut gray hair that almost matched the color of her eyes—even the left one, which was artificial, the result of a military encounter that she’d never shared with anyone—looked immaculate. She wore a dark blue business suit.

The last time Winter had seen Christine had been at Marion’s funeral nearly twelve years ago. Winter had almost returned a couple of years ago after Lorraine Miller had been killed. But she hadn’t been part of Rainy’s group. Winter had also been working undercover on a book about the Asian Triads in Seattle that had won her a Pulitzer Prize.

“You haven’t kept us waiting too long at all,” Winter replied. “David and I were just catching up on old times.”

Christine raised an eyebrow at that, then returned her attention to the computer.

Behind Christine’s back, David scowled. He didn’t say anything.

“I hadn’t expected you here, David.” Christine made a couple of notes.

“I told you I might drop by.”

“I thought we’d agreed to follow this course of action.”

“You didn’t mention who you were bringing in to handle this.”

“No.” Christine faced him. “I didn’t. I only told you that I was bringing in the best that I could.”

“What you’re talking about doing is incredibly sensitive,” David said.

“It’s also incredibly important that it be done well,” Christine countered. “You know that.”

Winter’s curiosity shot up immediately. She also felt vaguely flattered that Christine would hold her in such high regard. However, at the same time, she couldn’t help thinking that the whole production might be an act designed solely to get her to lower her defenses. She was no longer the naive young woman she’d been when she’d left the academy.

“Athena Academy and secrets have always gone hand in glove,” David said.

Winter knew that. When the decision had been made to build an all-girls school that would specialize in preparing young women for successful lives that included career paths for intelligence agents, military officers, investigative and forensics law enforcement personnel, a lot of government interest had been sparked. Winter had heard stories of agreements for funding from different government branches that Marion Gracelyn had considered and maybe accepted.

That would be a story, wouldn’t it? Winter told herself. Over the years of her career, she had been tempted to tell the story of Athena Academy and the iron-willed woman who had envisioned it. But there had been a code of silence about the school that no one, not even television news reporters Tory Patton or Shannon Connor—also Athena grads—had broken.

“I know that,” Christine said. “I’ve helped with some of those secrets myself.” She paused. “Now, with all due respect, David, let me get on with what I need to do. This is the best course of action at this juncture.”

David’s eyes swiveled to Winter. “Perhaps. But you’re extending a lot of trust.”

“I am,” Christine agreed. “But I would rather trust one of our own than someone from outside.” She turned to Winter. “You just got in from a long drive. Maybe you’d like to stretch your legs and have a look at the improvements that have been made since you were last here.”

“Sure.” Winter stood, ignoring David and falling into step with Christine as they left the office. She felt his eyes on her until the door closed behind her.

Uneasy and angry, David Gracelyn glared through the window of Christine Evans’s office. It was situated so that it faced the front of the school.

One of the short school buses was letting out a group of girls that had gone off on a field day. The academy believed in putting the students into real-life circumstances on a regular basis.

A moment later, Winter Archer and Christine Evans stepped into David’s field of view. His eyes were drawn immediately to the writer’s slender body. He could remember what she’d looked like when she’d gone to school with Allison, his sister.

Winter Archer was the only daughter of wealthy, career-driven parents who had been too glad to find a private school for their daughter. As a young girl, David remembered that Winter had always been an observer, never one for saying much. She’d struck him as pretty then, and that beauty had blossomed during the intervening years.

She had thick black hair, perfectly arched eyebrows, and plump lips. Her skin was pale, not unhealthy, just untanned. Like cream. The color made her hair and her light purplish hazel eyes stand out even more.

Winter’s eyes were what David remembered most about her. She’d always been watchful. But she’d been so quiet she’d been hard to get to know.

It was strange that he remembered her after all these years. He knew who she was, of course, because he’d read some of her books.

As an investigative reporter specializing in reconstruction of events and happenings that had complicated timetables, Winter Archer had few peers. Her books came out slowly, but they sold strongly. She worked on projects that covered the history of countries to the personal lives of media figures.

She had a reputation for telling the truth. But sometimes she told too much of the truth. The Carlson book was a perfect example.

A sour bubble of bile burst in the back of David’s throat. Even though the kidnappings had been solved and the girls had been returned to their families, he’d known the situation wasn’t over.

The letter from the mystery person had only confirmed that. The naked threat against anyone looking into the identity of “A” had remained in his mind.

And Christine’s, he reminded himself. After having two of her students kidnapped, Christine felt especially vulnerable. She’d also made her case: for someone to have known so much about the inner workings of Athena Academy, about its very existence, that person would have had to know about the school from its founding. Whoever they were looking for must have some connection to Marion Gracelyn’s past. Only an enemy with intimate knowledge of Marion’s legacy—and a huge grudge—would have pursued vengeance this long and this hard.

David knew his mother, but he didn’t know her as the woman she’d been before he’d been born. He didn’t know her life as Marion Hart, before she’d gotten married to Adam Gracelyn. That was what Winter Archer was here to uncover: Marion Hart’s life, from the time she was born until her murder.

The thing was, he and Christine both believed that “A,” the person involved with the recent kidnappings, had also been involved with Marion Gracelyn’s murder.

David knew he would never forget that day. A year ago, when part of the truth had come out about his mother’s murder, he’d been shocked. Everyone had believed they’d finally gotten to the truth of the matter.

But they hadn’t.

The kidnappings and the note had proven that.

Outside, Christine took Winter by the arm and pointed out some of the academy’s newest features. Winter looked interested, but she also looked like her focus was elsewhere.

David reached inside his jacket and took out his cell phone. He touched a button and listened to the connection ring. Once.

“Yes.” The voice was crisp and efficient, a perfect match for the man at the other end.

“She’s here,” David said.

“I know. We picked her up at her house in L.A. We’ve been with her ever since.”

“Good.” David felt a little better already. The man he’d contacted had come highly recommended in Washington political circles. He was a man that could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, do what was expected and never walk away from an assignment no matter how tough it got.

“Where’s she going to be staying?” the man asked.

“Here.” David knew that Christine had finalized arrangements on that end. Winter might not know where she was staying yet, but Christine wouldn’t give her much choice.

“That will make things easier,” the man said.

“It’ll also make them more dangerous, if anything happens. I don’t know that I’m comfortable with that.”

The man said nothing. He was careful, but even he hadn’t gone without losing people who had been in his charge.

“Keep a close watch on her,” David said.

“Is there anything or anyone I should keep her away from?” the man asked.

“No,” David said. “I just want to make sure she’s safe for the moment.”

“You’ve never said what she was here for.”

“No, I didn’t.” David intended to keep that confidential for as long as possible. He knew his silence might interfere with how the man did his job, but that was how it had to be. He closed the phone, not feeling nearly as relieved as he’d hoped he would.

Athena Academy had been built on secrets. His mother, God bless her, had engineered most of them. And he was certain that one of those secrets had reached out of the past and killed her. Now Winter Archer was here to find out the truth.

Chapter 2

Athena Academy

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Now

“As I recall, you loved horses when you were younger.” Christine smiled from where she stood beside the paddock.

“I did,” Winter agreed. She knew that she was wearing an unaccustomed goofy grin, but she couldn’t help it. Horses had always brought out that side of her. Even when she’d gotten in trouble at the academy and had been assigned to mucking out the barn, it hadn’t been a true hardship. She’d gotten to be around the horses. “I still do. I just don’t have as much time for riding as I used to.” She gazed across the paddocks where the horses were kept.

The big animals stamped and blew. The sounds echoed through the cavernous barn. Athena Academy kept several head of horses on hand. The stink of horse sweat, fresh hay and leather mixed made the air thick. But it smelled just right to Winter. Dozens of memories she’d thought lost and gone forever scampered through her brain like mice.

Before she realized what she was doing, Winter grabbed a handful of sweet feed from the bag hanging on a center post. She crossed to the nearest horse.

The young paint stallion rolled his eyes at first and trotted away from her. He snorted aggressively and laid his ears back against his head as if he was the fiercest thing on the planet. One sharp hoof stamped the ground in defiance.

Winter held the feed out and didn’t move. Drawn by the smell of the grain, the colt approached skittishly and took the offering from her hand with his quivering, whiskered lips. His teeth chomped together hollowly.

“Maybe you’ll find time to ride while you’re here,” Christine said.

“But I’m not here to ride, am I?” Winter ran a hand through the colt’s wiry forelock as he ate. He threatened to shy away, but his greed to fill his belly outweighed his instinctive fear.

“No, you’re not.” Christine’s smile slipped and faded.

“Maybe we could get to that then.” Winter petted the colt. Amusement coursed through her when the young horse rolled his eyes wildly and trotted away after he’d eaten all the food. She let him go. She knew that she could get him back.

Christine hesitated.

Winter kept silent. She’d learned to be quiet during an interview while in classes at Athena. The person that wanted to talk—to confess or to simply tell something they no longer wanted to carry on their own—would talk to fill the void. Eventually the person would get around to whatever was on his or her mind. The trick was not to offer any deflection from whatever they wanted to talk about.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this,” Christine started.

The colt pranced on the other side of the fence as if taunting Winter to give chase. Despite the solemnity of the moment, she smiled at his antics.

“I need someone to investigate Marion’s past,” Christine stated. “Someone good. Someone thorough.” She paused. “Someone I trust.”

Even as open-minded about the meeting as she’d been, the announcement caught Winter by surprise. She forced herself not to look at Christine. She didn’t want the woman to see the disbelief in her eyes.

“You don’t have anything to say?” Christine asked after a moment.

Marion Gracelyn was the matriarch of this school! She was your best friend! Hell, yes, I have a lot to say! And a lot to ask!

But Winter held back. “Christine,” she said softly, “you’ve already made up your mind to trust me or I wouldn’t be here. You’ve already decided that I’m the one you want to investigate Marion Gracelyn.” She turned to face the woman. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

Christine’s real eye grew moist. That was the only time any of the girls at school could tell which eye was a prosthetic. And Christine Evans didn’t often let her emotions show.

“Thank you,” Christine whispered. “I told David you’d understand.”

The mention of David Gracelyn’s name irritated Winter somewhat. He didn’t trust her or want her there. He’d made that perfectly clear.

“Marion Gracelyn is dead,” Winter said. “She’s been dead a dozen years. Why would her past suddenly be of interest? You want someone to write her memoirs?”

“No. This is of a more serious nature.”

Leaning against the paddock, Winter remained attentive. She was a good interviewer and she knew it, but that skill was sometimes complicated if she intimately knew the person she was interviewing. She not only knew Christine Evans, but she respected and liked the woman tremendously.

“Marion took a lot of secrets to her grave,” Christine said. “I couldn’t even imagine how many until these last few years. And those have been—” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Getting the academy funded and staffed was difficult.”

Winter hadn’t thought about that while she’d been attending the school, but after she’d gotten out in the world and started working as an investigative journalist she’d realized just how monumental the undertaking had been.

“You think Marion did something wrong?” The question didn’t come out as smoothly as Winter had tried to make it.

Christine took in a quick defensive breath. “No. I don’t. Not intentionally. But so many things had to happen simultaneously in order to make the academy a reality. Even Marion, as good as she was, wasn’t able to be everywhere at once.”

“She didn’t have to be,” Winter said. “You were there.”

“Thank you for that.” Christine relaxed a little. “But there were still a lot of problems.”

“We’re not talking about problems, though, are we?” Winter asked. “You mentioned secrets.” She couldn’t help pushing a little. It seemed like the time to do so. And even her patience wasn’t inexhaustible.

“We’re talking about secrets.” Christine hesitated. “I think that one of those secrets has come back to haunt us.”

“Which one?” For the life of her, Winter couldn’t imagine what it might be. Marion Gracelyn had always seemed so open and aboveboard.

“Somewhere in Marion’s life, she made a very powerful enemy.” Christine pursed her lips. “Over the last few years, that enemy has made himself or herself known to us.”

“Who’s the enemy?”

“That’s part of the problem, you see. We don’t know.”

Winter quivered inside. She loved mysteries. They were delectable little things that could encompass her every thought as she sorted them out. No matter what the secret was, it couldn’t remain hidden. There was always a trail. Normally that trail was marked by money or sex.

“How did you find out about this enemy?” Winter asked.

“That’s a long story.”

Winter smiled at the older woman gently. “You brought me out here, to one of my favorite places, to tell me this much. Maybe we could go to your favorite place and you could tell me the rest of the story there.”

Some of the sadness clinging to Christine lifted. She raised an eyebrow over her real eye. “Putting an interviewee at ease?”

A mischievous grin pulled at Winter’s lips. “Perhaps. Is it working?”

“I started being more at ease the moment you agreed to come.” Christine took a breath and nodded. “Let’s go.”

As they strolled through the gardens the horticulture and chemistry classes maintained, Winter listened to Christine talk about the investigation several former students had put together into the “accidental” death of Lorraine Miller. Walking amid the bright spring tulips, lilies, amaryllis, daffodils and irises and talking about murder and illegal genetic experiments seemed incongruous.

Hell, it is incongruous.

Astonished, Winter listened to the story of Lab 33 and the genetically enhanced young women that were—essentially—Rainy Miller’s “children.” Christine didn’t reveal who those young women were, but she talked about the strange physical abilities they had.

Winter couldn’t believe that only bits and pieces of the real story had ever surfaced in the media. There had been some flap over the story, but nothing had ever connected in the way Christine laid it out.

Then, seated on one of the small stone benches placed through the gardens, Christine started explaining about how Rainy’s death might have been connected to Marion’s and the recent kidnapping of the three young Athena Academy students. The story was long and Christine took pains to be thorough.

“You think the two girls that were taken were specifically chosen because they were created in Lab 33?” Winter asked.

Christine stood at the island in the kitchen and prepared chicken breasts. After talking for hours, she’d suggested they get something to eat, then offered to make dinner.

“Not in Lab 33. In a medical facility in Zuni.” Christine rolled a chicken breast in a liquid mixture and set it aside.

“How do you know that?” Winter wielded a chopping knife on salad ingredients with a dexterity she’d learned at the academy. When she’d first realized she was going to have to take culinary classes as part of her curriculum, she had demanded to know why. Her steadfast refusal to participate in class had prompted a visit to Christine Evans’s office. Christine had explained in no uncertain terms that learning to cook for oneself was just as important as any of the other skills she would be learning at the academy. She still didn’t necessarily enjoy the process, but she knew how to do it.

“We’ve managed to reconstruct some of Aldrich Peters’s notes from Lab 33,” Christine replied. “We’re still working on other pieces, but it’s getting harder.”

“But the girls were egg babies?” The term was foreign to Winter, but she’d picked it up because Christine had used it. She’d often unconsciously picked up sentence structure and vocabulary from people she interviewed.

“Yes. We knew they had special powers, but the method of their conception was a surprise.”

“Whoever took them knew more about the students here than you did.”

“We realized that later.” Christine cubed the chicken and scattered it across a hot pan. The meat sizzled and started browning at once.

Winter pushed the chopped vegetables into a salad bowl and shook them. She washed her hands in the sink and gazed around the kitchen.

Christine lived on-site at the school. Most of the faculty did. Of course there were a few teachers and specialists who were transitory and taught only as specific coursework was offered.

The house showed military order and precision. Winter would have expected nothing less. But there was also a softness and a personality that she hadn’t been prepared for. When Winter was in attendance, every student at the academy knew Christine Evans as firm but fair and as an ex-military officer. They even knew a little bit about her family, but none of them had ever been invited to her home.

“It’s good, in a way, that whoever was behind the kidnappings knows more than we do,” Christine said. “I feel more certain that it’s not someone here.”

Retreating to the island, Winter rested a hip against it and picked up a carrot stick. Her mind spun and clicked through the variables.

“Not necessarily,” Winter said.

Christine looked at her.

Winter counted off points on her fingers with her carrot stick. “Someone here could have decoded more of the DNA fragments you’re working with than anyone else has. Someone could have found more of the fragments than you know about. Or someone here might be working with this mysterious A person.”

“I truly hope not. We’ve already had one betrayal. A recent hire helped lure the girls away from the school. With everything that’s gone on, I don’t know how another betrayal in our midst would affect us.”

Winter quietly agreed. She crunched the carrot stick and thought some more. “What do you hope I can do?”

“Find Marion’s enemy.”

Oh? Is that all? Winter barely kept her sarcastic comment to herself. She pushed her breath out and tried to relax.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Winter asked.

“We’ve decided to give you free rein at the school. Through the records. Through Marion’s notes. Everything.”

Winter choked down the carrot and couldn’t believe what she was being offered. “There are a lot of people connected to the Athena Academy. Important people. Politicians. Military leaders. Philanthropists.”

“We know that.”

“Big philanthropists. People who don’t like their names in the news.”

“That’s right.”

“Information like that isn’t just handed out to anyone.”

“No,” Christine said, “it isn’t. That’s why I insisted on getting you.” She turned the chicken on the stove.

“Why did you insist on me?” Winter sat at the round table in the breakfast nook a few minutes later. The view outside the French doors looked out over a small, elegant English garden.

Christine offered chicken cubes to Winter. “Because you’re good at what you do.”

Winter put the chicken over her salad. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve read your books.” Christine fixed her own salad. She’d also prepared baby corn and placed it over the greens as well.

“Read them before or after you decided to call me?”

“I’ve always read them.” Christine poured sparkling white wine into two glasses.

“Always?” Winter couldn’t help prodding a little. She was shamelessly seeking out ego pampering, but she couldn’t help herself. Her parents, affluent and as distant as ever, couldn’t be bothered. Every day she seemed to have less and less in common with them.

“Yes. I read. I listen to music. I follow sports. And I appreciate artwork. Our young women have been successful in all those fields.”

Winter knew that. She’d recognized names in the media from her days at Athena Academy.

“Athena graduates have also become spies, forensics experts, military officers, attorneys and taken their places in careers that aren’t so easy to track.”

“I make an effort to follow them whenever I can.” Christine took a bite of salad. “You’d be surprised at how many of them actually stay in touch and let me know what they’re doing.”

Ouch. Guilt much? Winter knew she hadn’t been in touch often. There had been occasional Christmas cards, though Christine hadn’t missed a single one.

“If you’ve read my books and followed my career,” Winter warned, “you know that once I start following a story I don’t back off and I don’t take direction well.”

“I know. That’s why David isn’t happy about your involvement.”

Gracelyn Ranch

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Now

Winter parked her black Lexus SC 430 in front of a large family home that sat off by itself just west of Phoenix proper.

The grounds had been heavily landscaped. Gardeners walked through the immense area with wheelbarrows and other supplies. The grass looked like regulation green on a golf course. A tall security wall ran around the perimeter. Closed-circuit cameras had overlapping fields of vision.

During her career as an investigative journalist who specialized in reconstructing the lives of famous people, Winter had sometimes been around those who lived extravagant lifestyles. She hadn’t been impressed. Her parents owned larger houses than most of those she’d seen.

The Gracelyn family didn’t look as though they lived extravagantly, though. The house and grounds were large, that was true, but they also looked lived in. They weren’t just as showcases.

A young, impeccably dressed houseman came out to the car. Winter remained where she was and allowed him to get the door.

“Ms. Archer?” he asked. There was something about the way that he carried himself that suggested exposure to the military. His blond hair was cut high and tight. “I’m Gary. Mr. Gracelyn is waiting inside for you.”

“Thank you.” Winter stepped from the car. She wore black Capri pants and a burgundy blouse under a thigh-length jacket. She reached back into the car for her computer bag.

“I can get that for you,” Gary offered.

“No, thank you. I can manage.”

“If you’ll leave me your key, I’ll arrange to have the car garaged while you’re here.”

Winter dropped the rental’s keys into Gary’s hand. He pocketed them and took the lead.

“Mr. Gracelyn has arranged for you to use Senator Gracelyn’s home office.” Gary threw open the double doors and revealed the spacious office where Marion Gracelyn had spent a large chunk of her life.

Drawn by her curiosity, Winter stepped into the room and gazed at the walls. Two of them held shelves of books from floor to ceiling. The books didn’t look like they were there for show.

The other two walls held photographs of Marion Gracelyn at various stages of her career. Many of them showed her shaking hands with powerful men and women in political and financial circles. They ran the gamut of her career, from her early days as an assistant district attorney in Phoenix back in the 1960s to her final days as a state senator.

The years were kind to you, Winter thought as she looked at the pictures. In the early pictures, Marion had light brown hair that swept down to her shoulders. It was shorter than most women had worn their hair in those days because Jackie Kennedy’s trend-setting hadn’t spread to everyone yet, and most women hadn’t been in jobs where the upkeep of long hair would have been almost impossible.

She’d had deep brown eyes. Intense eyes, Winter realized, that reminded her immediately of David Gracelyn’s. Marion had been slim in those pictures and the outfits she’d worn made her look beautiful.

Even thirty-odd years later, Marion had been a beautiful woman. She didn’t look like she’d gained an ounce, and even looked fitter than ever in one of the photographs in tennis whites. Her hair was shorter, of course, because the style had changed.

“Ms. Archer,” Gary called from behind her.

Winter turned and found David standing beside the houseman. She hadn’t heard him come up. Then she got irritated because he’d stood there and watched her without saying a word.

David frowned at the houseman as if he resented being ratted out.

“Good morning, Mr. Gracelyn,” Winter said smoothly.

David nodded. “Ms. Archer.” He looked around. “I trust the office will suit?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Winter decided she would only reply to the social amenities and not give him one damn thing more. He could get over whatever was bothering him on his own. He was a big boy.

The problem was, she was aware that he was, too.

He was dressed more casually than she would have expected. He wore only jeans and a casual knit shirt that revealed his broad shoulders and chest and emphasized his narrow waist. He wore sandals instead of shoes. His hair even looked tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed.

And that started thoughts that Winter didn’t even want to entertain.

“If you need anything, Gary can see to it.” David started to leave, then hesitated.

Winter arched her brows at him.

“If there’s anything I can help with,” David said, “just let me know.”

It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ask for your help. But she said, “Sure.”

He left. Was he making a feeble attempt to play host or marking territory?

“Is he always so cheerful?” Winter placed her computer bag on the large desk and opened it.

Gary paused for a moment before speaking. “It isn’t you, Ms. Archer. I think that everything going on has just brought Senator Gracelyn’s absence more sharply into focus for everyone. We still miss her very much.”

Keen observation there, Winter chided herself. You should have seen from the way Christine reacted how hard this was going to be on everyone.

“Duly noted,” Winter responded. “Sometimes I think I take people’s reactions too personally.” In truth, that rarely happened. There was just something about David Gracelyn that set her off.

“That’s all right, Ms. Archer. As I understand it, you’ve a most arduous task ahead of you.”

Winter gazed around at the file boxes against the wall. According to Christine, David would provide Winter with all of Marion Gracelyn’s journals, notes, press clippings, and whatever other records she’d kept.

“I’ve been instructed to help you,” Gary went on.

As she surveyed the boxes, Winter felt that old familiar tingle of excitement thrill through her. She loved what she did. Absolutely freaking loved it. There was nothing like trolling through someone’s life, secrets and accomplishments.

There always seemed to be two people involved: the person that everyone saw, and the person that person could be when no one was around. Expectations—whether from self or from others—shaped so many people. Some rose to meet them in glorious ways. Others shattered or crumbled in failure. Most usually survived in the gulf or narrow crack that existed between the two.

So who was Marion Gracelyn really?

“Ms. Archer,” Gary prompted.

She looked back at the man and tried to regain control over her distraction. “Yes?”

“Would you like anything? Or for me to help?” Gary asked.

“Do you have Diet Coke?”

Gary looked surprised. It was understandable. It was only a little after eight o’clock. Most people probably drank coffee.

“I never acquired the coffee habit,” Winter admitted, “but I’m still a caffeine junkie.” She and Christine had stayed up into the small hours of the night talking. The early morning hadn’t come easily.

“Of course. I’ll see to it immediately.” Gary excused himself and vanished.

Winter sat in the chair behind the desk and started rifling through the boxes. The first thing she needed to do was familiarize herself with everything and get it organized in her mind.

Three days later, still working in the borrowed office and aware that David Gracelyn and Christine Evans were getting a little impatient despite their best efforts, Winter was starting to think that she was on a snipe hunt. Marion Gracelyn had angered a lot of politicians over the years, and one of them had finally killed her in a fit of pique. He’d been the only real enemy Winter had turned up.

Her inability to find anything was wearing at her confidence. Maybe she wasn’t the person for the job. Maybe David Gracelyn didn’t have anything to worry about.

Then the word Murder on a news clipping caught Winter’s eye. She reached down into the box where a notebook had fallen open to reveal a news story.

The notebook wasn’t actually one of Marion’s. It belonged to Adam Gracelyn, her husband. Some of his things had evidently gotten mixed up with his wife’s over the years.

Winter placed the notebook on the desk and leafed through the pages till she came to the news story she’d spotted. It was dated Thursday, May 16, 1968. The headline screamed:

Vietnam War Hero Found Murdered

Early this morning Thomas Jefferson Marker, a decorated ex-Army colonel in the Vietnam War, was shot to death by an unidentified woman in the Kellogg Motel near Laveen.

The Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office responded to calls reporting gunfire at the motel but officers arrived too late to save Marker’s life. Deputies took the unidentified young woman into custody at the scene.

Many people across the United States know of Colonel Marker’s heroic efforts in Vietnam to bring back American soldiers held in prisoner-of-war camps.

“He was a great man,” Beverly Sorensen, a Cincinnati mother, said when interviewed this morning. “He brought our son home to us when we thought he was lost to us forever. He brought a lot of sons and daddies home from that awful place.”

In their war on crime, the district attorney’s office had their newest recruit, Miss Marion Hart, in the field last night. Ms. Hart, a life-long resident of Phoenix, arrived shortly after the murder.

“We’re working leads now,” Ms. Hart said at the scene. “The district attorney’s office will get to the bottom of it.”

A picture accompanied the story. It showed Marion Hart standing in front of a low-rent motel. Behind her, two men rolled a sheet-covered body out on a gurney. Deputy sheriffs holding shotguns flanked her.

According to Winter’s timeline, Marion had been twenty-eight years old. She hadn’t yet married Adam Gracelyn. But the two had known each other. According to the news story, Adam Gracelyn had become the woman’s defense attorney.

That must have been some meeting.

Intrigued, Winter kept reading.

Chapter 3

Outside Laveen, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

The ringing blasted Marion Hart into wakefulness. She groaned and rolled over in bed, then reached for the phone on the nightstand. As she pulled the receiver to her ear, her brain kicked to life.

The soft green glow of the uranium-tipped hands of the alarm clock showed the time was 3:41 a.m.

She’d gotten two hours of sleep. She sat up with her back against the headboard and said, “Marion Hart.”

“Marion, did I wake you?”

She recognized District Attorney Geoffrey Turnbull’s gravelly voice immediately. Adrenaline thudded through her body. During the seven weeks she’d been with the district attorney’s office, Turnbull had never called her in the middle of the night.

They’d attended one of the mayor’s political campaign functions earlier. No, she told herself. That was yesterday.

But God help her, that didn’t feel like yesterday. It felt like minutes ago.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Sorry,” Turnbull said. He was in his fifties and had held the office of district attorney for seven years. He’d been an A.D.A. before that and was a fishing buddy of Marion’s father. According to the local gossip, that was one of the main reasons Turnbull had hired her into the D.A.’s office.

“It’s all right,” Marion said. “I was only…sleeping.”

Turnbull chuckled. “I was, too, when I got the call.”

“What call, sir?”

“Stop calling me ‘sir.’”

“Yes, sir.” Marion had tried. She didn’t automatically give a lot of men respect, and she didn’t give many offices immediate respect, either. Turnbull was a lot like her dad, though, and she gave men like that respect.

Turnbull sighed. “I hate to ask this, Marion, but I need you to handle something. I hadn’t planned on a murder taking place when I spent last night drinking. Driving over to cover this is out of the question. I’m still half in the bag.”

Marion wanted to say, Only half? But she didn’t. Turnbull was well-known for his drinking proclivity, though he’d never let it interfere with his job. A lot of deals were made over drinks and cigars. Marion knew that from waiting tables to put herself through law school.

“And I damn sure didn’t think a celebrity would go and get himself killed,” Turnbull added.

“‘Celebrity’?” Marion repeated. The part about the killing didn’t surprise her. A phone call late at night had already brought that possibility to mind. No one called the D.A.’s office at night to ask legal questions.

“An honest-to-God war hero.” Papers rustled. “His name’s— was—Tom Marker. He was a colonel in the army. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes.” It would have been hard not to have heard of the man. Marker had brought back Brian Ellis, the scion of the Ellis airline empire, only a year or so ago. The story of the father and son’s reunion after nearly eighteen months in a Vietcong war prison had been in all the papers and on television. “Who killed him?”

“A woman. The sheriff’s office caught her at the scene.”

Marion switched on the lamp next to her bed. The bright light hurt her eyes. She opened the nightstand drawer and took out a notebook and pen.

The notebook was a five-by-seven bound edition. All the pages were numbered. That had been one of the things Turnbull had insisted on when she accepted the job. Everything was written in bound notebooks and with a pen. The notebooks were part of the evidence chain the prosecutor’s office might have to provide.

Marion turned to a clean page and made a notation of the day and time. She wrote Tom Marker’s name, then Death Investigation.

“Do we know who the woman is?” Marion asked.

“Not yet, A.D.A. Hart,” Turnbull replied. She heard the grin in his words. “That’s going to be one of the first things you need to let me know. In the morning. I’m going back to bed. From what Fred Keller says, this thing should be a slam-dunk. If you need anything, try to wait till morning. I’m going to be hungover as hell and I have to be in front of Judge Ferguson at ten o’clock for an arraignment.”

“All right. But what am I supposed to—”

“Just get to the Kellogg Motel, Counselor. Talk to Fred. He’ll walk you through the crime scene. Oh, and take your camera. The sheriff’s office will have a photographer there taking pictures, but I always like to have our own photos in a murder investigation. Especially if it involves celebrities. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turnbull hung up before Marion could say anything. She took the phone from her ear and stared at it for a moment.

Then the shock wore off and excitement flared again. A murder. And Turnbull was letting her handle it. Grinning, she cradled the phone and climbed out of bed. She grabbed a suit from the closet on her way to the apartment’s tiny bathroom.

It was her first murder case. And she’d take a slam-dunk any day. Court cases were all about the win.

Thirty-seven minutes later, freshly showered and feeling more awake, Marion pulled her 1965 Mustang Fastback off the highway and into the Kellogg Motel parking lot. The pavement glistened like black ice from a recent light rain.

The motel was laid out in a large U so that the two legs encompassed the parking area. The manager’s office was in the right leg at the front. Red neon tubing marked the office and gleamed from the front of the Pepsi machine.

A tall deputy in a yellow slicker waved her down with a flashlight.

Marion pulled up next to him and rolled down her window. She hated letting the rain into the car. Although it wasn’t new, it was new to her. The old Rambler her dad had helped her buy and repair had finally given out a week after she’d gotten the job in the D.A.’s office. The payments came dearly and she still occasionally winced over the doubt she’d seen in her dad’s eyes. Both her parents were schoolteachers. Money had never been plentiful in their household.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the grizzled deputy said. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to move along. This here motel is closed.”

“I’m with the district attorney’s office.” Marion switched on her interior light and showed him her identification.

The man read the identification, then scrunched down and took a better look at her. “But…you’re a woman.”

I am, Marion thought fiercely. And you’d better get used to it. There’s a new world coming.

“Gee,” Marion said, “you stay sharp like that and I’ll bet you make detective someday.” The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. She regretted them at once. Creating ill will with the sheriff’s office wouldn’t endear her to anyone. A fast-talking, sarcastic woman definitely wouldn’t be appreciated.

But she hated the condescending attitude men had toward women. She’d faced it the whole time she’d put herself through law school. Most of the men there had waited for her to fail out or break down from all the pressure. Instead she’d graduated near the top of her class.

But the deputy wasn’t angry; he grinned. “Well I’ll be. A woman. And you’re young, too. This should be interesting.” He stood up and backed away. “You go on ahead, ma’am. Sheriff Keller will meet you at the room.”

“Thank you.” Marion put her identification back into her purse. “Which room?”

“I expect it’ll be the one with the dead body in it, ma’am.”

Okay, you had that one coming, Marion thought sourly. She gazed through the rain-dappled windshield at the motel rooms.

Sheriff’s cars and an ambulance sat in front of only one of them. The red and white lights cut swaths through the neon-spattered darkness. The mercury vapor lights made the blue cars look purple.

Marion eased ahead and parked well short of the traffic congestion. She didn’t want to chance any door dings. She got out of the Mustang, slung her purse over her shoulder, skidded for a moment on her pumps and crossed to the motel room.

Sheriff Fred Keller of Maricopa County was a no-nonsense kind of guy. Even though Marion knew Turnbull had told Keller she was coming, it was obvious that the sheriff didn’t approve of her presence.

She tried to ignore that, but it was a fierce struggle. He was the kind of aloof male that drew fire with just a glance.

He stood almost six feet tall and was solid and muscular. From the look of his craggy face and iron-gray hair, Marion guessed he was in his late fifties. His dark skin offered mute testimony that he spent a lot of the day under the hot Arizona sun. The pistol on his hip looked massive.

“You mind if I smoke, ma’am?” Keller asked. Before Marion even had time to reply, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lipped one and lit up with a Zippo lighter. The wavering flame drew his features briefly out of the shadows. He blew a plume of gray smoke out into the rainy night.

Marion knew she could be no-nonsense herself and decided to show the man. She stepped under the eave out of the rain and opened her notebook.

“What happened?” Marion asked.

Keller looked at her over the hot orange coal of his cigarette and then lowered his hand. “An unidentified woman came to this motel room—” he pointed with his cigarette to indicate the unit Marion stood next to “—that would be unit thirty-seven—and used a .357 Magnum to nearly blow off Colonel Tom Marker’s head, ma’am. That’s what happened.”

Marion took quick notes in shorthand. She’d learned that while still in high school when her parents thought she was going to be a teacher like them. At the time, she hadn’t known how helpful it would be in her job as an attorney.

“Were there any witnesses?” Marion asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The night manager’s name is Bud Overton. I’ve got a man down to his office who’s taking a statement.”

“I’ll want to talk to Mr. Overton.”

“We’re getting a statement. You can just read what he tells us. I’ll have the report right out to you.”

Marion met the man’s eyes. “Will you be putting Mr. Overton on the stand and questioning him about what he saw tonight during the murder trial, Sheriff Keller?”

Keller took a hit off his cigarette. “No, ma’am.”

“Well, I will be.” If this turns out right, Marion told herself. “I’ll need to speak to Mr. Overton tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Keller frowned in distaste and rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I think it would have been better if Turnbull had sent someone else down here.”

“If D.A. Turnbull had felt that way,” Marion said evenly, “I expect he would have done just that. Don’t you?”

Keller grimaced. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Walk me through the murder.”

Marion took notes as Keller talked. She was attentive and spoke only when she needed clarification. Evidently that impressed him because some of his surliness went away. But maybe that was because he was a total professional when it came to his job. His pride and thoroughness were evident.

According to Overton’s story, the woman had walked into the motel parking lot wearing a thigh-length jacket. Overton had noticed her because she was “a good-lookin’ woman” and he didn’t see many of those at the motel. Except for the ones who were trying to drum up a little business.

Keller said that before he thought about it. He paused, colored briefly and apologized. Marion quietly accepted the apology, not because she’d been embarrassed—because she wasn’t—but because she knew that the discomfort Keller felt gave her a slight edge over the man.

The woman had gone to the unit and—

“She came directly to this unit?” Marion interrupted. She glanced at the door. The unit was neatly marked with brass numbers on the door. It was room number 37.

“Yes, ma’am. Overton says there was no hesitation.”

Marion thought about that. “Marker could have called her here.”

Keller shrugged and nodded. “I thought of that. Don’t know how we’d prove it.”

“We could subpoena phone records,” Marion supplied. That course of action was relatively new.

“I suppose so,” Keller replied, looking a little impressed. Then he continued with his account.

The woman had paused at the door for a moment, then took her pistol out and walked into the room.

“Marker let her in?” Marion asked.

“We don’t believe so, ma’am,” Keller said. “There are fresh scratches on the lock. We found lockpicks on the woman. And Overton says there weren’t any lights on in the room. We believe Colonel Marker was asleep when she entered.”

Once inside the room, the woman had switched on a small flashlight and opened fire almost immediately.

“Overton says the muzzleflashes lit up the room just seconds after she entered,” Keller told Marion. “Says it was like a lightning storm started up in there.”

“Are flashes like that normal?” Marion hadn’t seen gunfire at night.

“Yes, ma’am. Muzzleflashes can be awfully bright in the dark.”

The sound of the shots had rolled out over the motel parking area. At that point Overton had dived behind the counter and dragged the phone down with him.

“The woman was still here when you arrived?” Marion asked when the sheriff finished his summation.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask her that.”

“Are you ready to do this?” Keller asked.

Marion stood at the door’s threshold. So far she hadn’t ventured inside the room. But the thought of the corpse lying in wait hadn’t been far from her mind.

Until this moment, the only dead bodies she’d seen had been in funeral homes. She’d still felt uncomfortable around them. There was something about the emptiness of the body and knowing that the eyes would never open that scratched at her nerves.

“Yes,” Marion whispered.

Keller looked at her. “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

“Are you trying to protect me, Sheriff Keller?” Marion appreciated that from him at the same time that she resented it. She’d fought hard to earn the respect of the men she’d worked with and she wasn’t going to lose the foundation of that respect by allowing them to be nice to her.

Needing protection wouldn’t further the recognition that a woman could do the same job as a man.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keller answered without hesitation.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Marion told him.

“No, ma’am. If you don’t mind me asking, Counselor, have you seen a murder victim before?”

Marion hesitated. “Only in photographs.”

Keller nodded grimly. “Well this here’s a lot worse than any photographs would be. You can’t smell the blood and stuff through a picture. You might want to rethink going into that room.”

I can’t, Marion thought. If I back down now, if I don’t face this, it’s going to haunt me.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“The reason I’m telling you this,” Keller said, “is that we’ve got news reporters on the scene now.”

Looking over the sheriff’s shoulder, Marion saw a loose semi-circle of people standing out beyond the striped sawhorses the deputies had put up. As she looked, a man lifted a large camera and took her picture. The bright light from the flashbulb temporarily caused black spots to whirl in her vision.

She hadn’t noticed the presence of the reporters.

“They’re always circling,” Keller said. “Like vultures. Somebody else’s bad news is their good news.” He frowned like he’d bitten into something sour.

Marion knew from her studies and her exposure in the D.A.’s office that she would have, at best, an adversarial relationship with the press. Anything less would amount to all-out war.

“What I’m saying,” Keller went on, “is that those vultures would love to hang a picture on the morning’s paper of Phoenix’s newest A.D.A. throwing up.”

“Nice thought,” Marion said.

“I’m just saying,” Keller protested, “that you don’t want it to happen to you.”

Marion thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. But I’m still going into that room.”

Keller eyed her levelly for a moment, nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Whenever you’re ready.”

Facing the door, Marion took a deep breath and let it out.

“When you get inside,” Keller said, “try breathing through your mouth. Not your nose. It helps cut down on the smell.”

“Thank you.” Marion steeled herself and walked into the motel unit.

Chapter 4

Kellogg Motel

Off I-17

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

The smell of death slammed into Marion as soon as she crossed the threshold. She opened her mouth and started breathing that way. It helped—a little. The nauseating odor still hung in the air.

Marion froze as her stomach tried to rebel. In front of her, a powerfully built man with coal-black hair lay sprawled on the dark green carpet. Blood threaded the man’s hair and pooled out around him. The bullets had nearly destroyed his face.

Without warning, Marion’s legs turned rubbery. Her stomach lurched and the sour taste of bile filled the back of her throat. She swallowed and forced herself to remain standing.

Three other men stood in the room. Two of them were deputies. Another wore a plain black suit and a white beard. All of them watched Marion with bright interest.

Since she’d been with the D.A.’s office, Marion had seen the violence people could do to each other. She’d taken statements from families who had lost loved ones in an altercation and from rape victims and domestic abuse victims in the local E.R.s. The hardest investigations had been those involving children. Those still haunted Marion.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Keller’s voice was quiet and controlled.

Marion started to reply, then thought maybe her voice wasn’t up to the task. She nodded contritely. Even that made her head swim.

The bearded man in the suit studied Marion. He took a cigar from inside his jacket and lit up. He waved the smoke out of his face.

“You runnin’ sightseein’ tours now, Frank?” the man asked.

“Not hardly, Doc. This is Assistant District Attorney Marion Hart. Turnbull sent her over to cover tonight’s festivities.”

“Oh.” The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He sent a woman to something like this?”

Resenting the man’s question and his attitude, Marion took a breath to keep herself in check.

Be calm, Marion told herself. “Who are you?” she asked the man pointedly.

The man smiled. “Takes her job seriously, doesn’t she?”

Marion waited but made no comment.

“I’m Dr. Benjamin Shetterly. I serve as medical examiner for the state of Arizona. I’m here to assume custody of the body.”

Marion wrote the information down. “You were called out to the murder scene?”

“I don’t rely on a crystal ball, if that’s what you mean.”

The two deputies in the background laughed out loud.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Marion asked, “Who called you?”

“Sheriff Keller. He usually does for one of these. And sometimes he calls me for poker night if he’s got an empty chair.”

“You’ve worked murders before?”

“Of course. I’ve logged plenty of court hours on the witness stand.”

Marion wrote that down. Turnbull would probably already be familiar with Doc Shetterly.

“Dr. Shetterly,” Marion said.

“Call me Doc,” the man requested. “Everybody does.”

“Thank you. What can you tell me about the victim?”

Doc flicked ash from his cigarette into a plastic bag in his pocket. “He was shot to death. Close range.”

“How do you know that?”

Shetterly regarded her thoughtfully. “How strong is your stomach?”

“Strong enough.”

A smile thinned Shetterly’s lips. “I guess we could test it then. If you really want to know the answer to that question, come here.”

That’s a challenge. Marion knew the invitation for what it was. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried to ignore the stench of fresh death in the room and crossed over to Shetterly’s side. This is what you signed on to do. Get it done.

The coroner took an ink pen from his pocket. Leaning over the dead body, he pointed toward black spots on what was left of the dead man’s face.

“Do you see this?” Shetterly asked.

Marion had a hard time discerning the black spots at first. All she could see was the gory ruin of Marker’s face. Broken ivory bone showed through the crimson pulp. Blood covered the bed sheets.

Not trusting her voice, Marion nodded.

“Those are tiny burns from the muzzleflashes of the murder weapon. When you hold a firearm close enough, when you shoot, it’ll cause those.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Marion said hoarsely.

“Really? Where?” Shetterly seemed immediately interested.

“In classes on physical evidence. Never—” Marion’s voice broke. She sipped a quick breath. “Never in person before.”

Shetterly nodded. “Burns like these generally mean the murder was personal.”

Marion seized on that. “You think Marker knew his killer?”

“I’ve got near a lifetime spent working things like this,” Shetterly said. “Somebody kills this close up, it’s because there’s a lot of emotion involved.”

“It also means the killer wanted to make sure the job was done,” Keller added.

“Was Marker awake when she killed him?” Marion asked.

“That’s hard to answer.” Shetterly moved his face within inches of the dead man’s. He used a stainless steel forceps to sift through the wreckage. The physician breathed out smoke and the gray vapor flushed across the torn and broken flesh. “If he was awake, she didn’t allow him to sit up.”

“How do you know?”

Shetterly slid the dead man’s head over to reveal the ragged mattress below. “I expect we’ll find the bullets in the floor below.”

Marion’s stomach flipped a little. “How many times did she shoot him?”

Keller answered that. “When we took the .357 Magnum off her, all the rounds had been fired.”

Grateful for the chance to turn away from the corpse, Marion looked at the sheriff. “How many rounds does the pistol hold?” She thought she knew, but she wasn’t certain. She didn’t like to assume.

“Six.”

She fired six rounds into a man’s face at point-blank range. Marion tried to imagine what would drive someone to do something like that. She had no idea.

“I think he was awake for a moment,” Shetterly said. “But only just.”

Marion swiveled back to the physician. “Why?”

Lifting the dead man’s left arm, Shetterly indicated the torn flesh across the knuckles. “Those tears are fresh. I think he managed to hit his killer before she killed him.”

Leaning down, Marion took pictures of the damage that showed on the knuckles. Light glinted from the military ring the dead man wore. “You’re sure this is recent?”

“Yeah. There’s no sign of clotting or scabs. He hit her, then she killed him. There was no time for the healing to begin.”

Marion shifted her attention back to Keller. “Does the woman have any marks to corroborate this?”

Keller touched his left temple. “Here. You can see the bruising and scratches. Probably from the ring.”

“There’s something else,” Shetterly said.

“What?”

Shetterly pointed to the dead man’s chest. Marker had gone to bed shirtless. The physician traced a muddy print on the lifeless flesh with his forefinger. “It was raining when the woman arrived.”

“What is that?” Marion asked. Then, just before Shetterly answered, she recognized it.

“That,” Shetterly said, “is a muddy footprint.” He looked up at Keller, who had come over to join them. “I spotted this after you went outside. Thought you’d like to see it.”

“Can we get a print off it?” Keller asked.

“Take pictures of this,” Shetterly said. “Then take pictures of the bottom of the shoes that woman has on. It’s almost as good as fingerprints.”

“She put her foot on him?” Marion asked.

Shetterly nodded. “I think so.”

“Why?”

The medical examiner took glasses from a shirt pocket, slipped them on and examined the muddy print. “Looks like she used her foot to hold Marker down while she shot him. He knew it was coming. She made sure of that.”

“Do we know what Marker was doing here?” Marion stood outside the motel room while Shetterly and his assistant took care of the body.

“No.” Keller smoked and watched the rain pouring from the eave.

Marion glanced at her wristwatch. Almost an hour had passed since her arrival. It had only seemed like minutes. The death smell clung to her and she couldn’t wait to get home to shampoo the stench out of her hair.

“There is the connection to the Ellis family,” she said. “We could follow up on that.”

Keller nodded. “Got that penciled in. But folks like the Ellises don’t live the same lives you and I do, Counselor. The air’s a mite more rarified where they are.”

Marion knew that. Phoenix tended toward a city of absolutes. Rich and poor families lived there, but they seldom interacted.

“Even if we do get a chance to interview them, they’re not going to tell us any more than they want us to know.”

“Personal experience, Sheriff?” Marion asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Keller hesitated a moment. “Brian Ellis may have come home from Vietnam as a returning prisoner of war and a military hero of sorts, but he didn’t leave here that way.”

“What do you mean?”

Keller shook his head. “I already said too much. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Marion decided to let the comment pass but she made a mental note to have a look at whatever the D.A.’s office had on Brian Ellis. “Where’s the woman?”

Keller nodded toward the sheriff’s office cars. “I’ve got her in one of the cars. Maybe Marker got lucky with that punch before she blasted him. She was out on her feet, more or less. She was walking back along the parking lot when the first cars arrived. If we’d been another couple minutes later—” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “We might have missed her.”

“I want to see her.”

Marion followed Keller’s broad back to one of the nearest sheriff’s cruisers. Rain pelted her in fat drops. The rainfall was abnormal for the time of year, but the weather sometimes did strange things due to the White Tank mountain range.

They stopped at the car and Keller nodded to the deputies standing guard. The man put his hand on his sidearm and gingerly opened the door.

“You’ll want to be careful, Cap’n,” the young deputy said. “She fights something fierce. Jonesy is at the hospital getting his ear stitched up where she bit him. Got to wonder if he needs his rabies vaccination, too.”

They’re afraid of her, Marion realized. That surprised her. She hadn’t seen men afraid of women very often. Or if they were, they’d given no indication of it.

The woman sat in the backseat with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her dark chestnut hair cascaded across her shoulders. Her profile was strong. Pale skin picked up the lights from the motel parking lot. Even seated she looked taller than average and extremely athletic.

She ignored them as they stared at her. The effort reminded Marion of the wild animals that had gotten trapped in the attic of her family home. She and her dad had once had to relocate a whole family of raccoons. They’d used live cages to capture them. While caged, the raccoons had pointedly ignored them in the same manner as this woman. But when the cage was rattled, they attacked immediately. Marion suspected the same would hold true of the woman in the back of the sheriff’s car.

“I’m Marion Hart,” Marion said. She felt guilty simply staring at the woman. Despite what she’d done, she wasn’t a zoo animal.

The woman ignored Marion and kept her gaze locked on the front windshield.

“I’m with the district attorney’s office,” Marion said.

Slowly the woman turned her head and looked at Marion. Deep blue eyes gleamed like daggers in the pale light waxing over the motel parking lot. They were cold and devoid of emotion.

“Prove it,” the woman challenged. Her voice was flat and harsh. There was a nasal quality that made Marion immediately think she was from somewhere back East.

Taken aback by the woman’s decision to speak and the unflinching challenge that had rung out in her voice, Marion opened her purse and removed her identification. She started to lean in with it but Keller intercepted her hand.

“She’s who she says she is,” Keller said.

Resentment flashed over Marion. “I’m quite capable of—”

“Capable of getting yourself killed,” Keller growled. “This woman does things with her fists and feet that I haven’t ever seen done before.” He handed Marion her identification back.

“A woman,” the woman mused. “Interesting.”

“I have some questions,” Marion said.

“I don’t care.” The woman turned and went back to staring through the windshield.

Despite repeated attempts to get the woman to talk, Marion finally gave up in disgust. The newspaper people were pressing forward as well. Keller shut the door on the cruiser and ordered the driver to take the prisoner to jail.

“We’re not going to get anything out of her,” Keller said as the departing car’s taillights flared red.

“She has to talk,” Marion said. “What kind of woman would walk into a man’s motel room, shoot him dead and then show no emotion?”

“She’s already shown emotion,” Keller commented. “That was the part where she put all six rounds through Marker’s head.”

They watched in silence as Doc Shetterly and his team brought the body from the motel room on a gurney. White sheets covered the dead man, but blood soaked through and turned the material dark.

Bulbs from the reporters’ cameras flashed. Marion was also certain she heard someone cheering. She tried not to think about how quickly a person went from living to being a temporary news sensation.

Life had to be worth more than that.

Back at the Maricopa County Jail, Marion watched as the jailer matron, a hefty dishwater blonde named Whitten, forced the woman to strip and subject herself to the obligatory shower to kill possible lice infestation. The prisoner stood arrogant and proud before the stares of the other women.

Her body was a work of art. Hard, lean muscle created dynamic curves. She was a woman, Marion realized, that would turn men’s heads no matter where she was or what she wore.

But the beauty was marred. Several scars—bullet, knife and burns—marked the prisoner. Miraculously nothing had touched that gorgeous face.

However, the bruising from the blow they suspected Marker had delivered before he’d died was starting to darken. The prisoner’s left cheek was puffy from it. A long scratch held blood crust. Due to the darkness in the cruiser, Marion hadn’t noticed the damage.

Marion made a note to have a medical doctor take a look at the woman. She didn’t want charges of law enforcement abuse or coercion to taint the case.

Staring at the signs of present and past violence, Marion couldn’t help wondering what kind of life the woman had lived. If she was a product of abuse, how accountable could she be held for her actions?

Domestic abuse had always been something practiced behind closed doors, but cases were being brought out of the homes into the courts these days. When she’d grown up, Marion had lived next door to a family where a woman had been abused.

Marion’s father had intervened on more than on occasion. He’d grown more and more frustrated with his helplessness. The neighbor had been a long-haul trucker and the beatings had been as regular as the work that had taken the man out of town.

Marion’s mother had advised the woman to leave her husband one night while tending the bruises and cuts the man’s fists had left. The whole time, the women’s two young children had clung to Marion and quivered. In the end, the woman had cried pathetically and told them that she couldn’t leave her husband because she wouldn’t be able to care for her children.

Immediately following one late-night episode, Marion’s father had called the police. Marion had been frightened for her father because the trucker’s rage had been dark and out of control. He had threatened to kill Marion’s father.

In the end, though, the police had done nothing. The woman had sworn she’d fallen down the stairs. One of the policemen stated that she must have fallen up the stairs as well to do all the damage they’d seen. She’d refused their offer to take her to the hospital and asked them to leave. Without testimony, the officers hadn’t been able to act.

That experience remained within Marion’s mind. Women sometimes ended up helpless not because they lacked the will or ambition to take care of themselves. Many of them ended up victimized by men and life simply because they lacked options.

Marion hadn’t wanted to be that helpless. But there were several women who still were. Someday, somehow, she wished she could help them realize their potential instead of accepting a secondary citizenship role. She also wanted to change the law so police officers could act to protect the welfare of a family without testimony.

Marion had taken the job as an assistant district attorney not just because she loved the work, but because she’d wanted to show other women that they could succeed outside the home, too.

That hadn’t worked out as well as Marion had hoped. Most of the wives of the men in the D.A.’s office resented her because they viewed her as a threat, not a role model. Some disliked her because she spent more time with their husbands than they did.

Marion had always heard that nothing worth having ever came easily. She tried to remember that to convince herself she had made the right choices, but it was hard.

Once the shower was over, the woman stepped into a pair of white cotton panties, a bra and pulled on the jumpsuit Whitten issued her. She pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. During the whole process, she never once acknowledged anyone else in the room.

Marion felt sorry for the woman. During her time with the D.A.’s office, Marion had never watched anyone processed through an arrest. The whole experience seemed demeaning.

Like dealing with cattle, Marion couldn’t help thinking. But then she focused on what the corpse had looked like in the motel room. Whatever family Colonel Thomas Marker had left behind couldn’t even have an open casket service. No one would be able to replace what the woman’s bullets had taken away.

But thinking like that only raised the question of the woman’s motivation in Marion’s mind again. She really wanted to know what had happened in that motel room.

They stood the prisoner against one wall and took pictures of her right profile and full face. She was booked under the name Jane Doe.

A few moments later, Whitten looked at Marion curiously. “Where do you want her?” the matron asked.

“Put her in interview room D,” Marion responded. “I’ll be along shortly.”

The jailer nodded. She took the woman by the arm and guided her through the door. Before they’d gone three steps, the woman slid into sudden movement as graceful as a dancer’s choreography.

The woman lifted her captured arm, folded it, then rammed it into the matron’s face. The meaty impact filled Marion’s ears. Blood gushed from the matron’s mouth, but she was a big woman and used to dealing with violent prisoners. The matron reached for the woman.

The prisoner ducked beneath Whitten’s arms. She turned and spun on one foot. The other leg folded then snapped forward like a coiled spring. The prisoner’s bare foot caught Whitten in the throat with enough force to lift her from her feet.

The matron stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. The other two female jailers rushed forward and tried to grab the prisoner.

The prisoner grabbed the outstretched arm of one jailer as she sidestepped. She whirled and maintained her grip on the jailer’s arm. Something snapped with a sickening crunch. The jailer flipped and landed flat on her back. Her breath left her lungs in a rush.

The other jailer slid her nightstick from her belt and swung at the prisoner’s head. In a blur of movement, the prisoner lifted her left arm, trapped the jailer’s arm under it, then spun back outside of the jailer’s reach. The prisoner delivered two punishing elbows to the jailer’s temple. The jailer crumpled but the prisoner stripped the nightstick from her hand before the woman collapsed.

Marion stepped forward but wasn’t certain what she was going to do. Before she reached the prisoner, the woman whirled and smashed the nightstick across Marion’s forearm.

Pain ignited in Marion’s head. Her senses screamed. Driven more by instinct than any planning, she tried to step back. But it was too late. The prisoner circled behind her and slid the nightstick across her throat.

“Okay, muffin,” the prisoner said in that nasal accent. “It’s just you and me now.”

Chapter 5

Maricopa County Jail

Phoenix, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

Panic swelled through Marion as the prisoner held her. The crushing pressure against her windpipe was merciless. She knew she was only inches from death.

“How do you feel now, muffin?” the prisoner whispered in her ear. “Are you afraid? Fear isn’t going to get you out of a situation like this. You’ve got to control your fear. Use it. When you can work with it, fear makes you faster, stronger. You’re never more alive than when you’re at the edge of death. Don’t you feel it?”

Marion didn’t answer. She reached for the nightstick.

The prisoner pulled the nightstick tighter. “Don’t. Get your hand down or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

With effort, Marion got control of her fear and dropped her hand. She swallowed hard and hoped she didn’t throw up. Her senses swam, but she was certain that was more from the blood flow getting cut off to her brain than anything else. She almost fell.

The pressure from the nightstick lessened.

“Don’t pass out on me, muffin,” the prisoner commanded. “We’ve got places to go. Things to do. We’re going to start with getting out of here.”

Across the room, Whitten got to her feet. The big woman gasped and wheezed. She helped one of the other jailers to her feet. The jailer cradled her broken arm.

The third jailer lay on her back. Blood pooled beneath her from the laceration on her face. Whitten touched the woman’s neck. Marion’s stomach gave another sickening lurch when she realized Whitten was checking to make certain the woman was still alive.

“I didn’t kill her,” the prisoner snarled. “I could have if I’d wanted to.” Savage joy resonated in her words. Marion heard it. But desperation was there as well. “I could have killed you too, piggy.”

“You’re not getting out of here,” Whitten croaked.

“I think I will.” The prisoner shook Marion. “I’ll bet nobody around here wants their token women’s libber in the D.A.’s office to end up dead this morning.”

Whitten beat on the door without taking her eyes from the prisoner. Marion saw anger on the big woman’s face, but she saw fear as well.

The door opened and a deputy shoved his head inside. He took in the scene at a glance, drew his weapon and started to come into the room.

“Stay out,” the prisoner ordered. “Or I’ll kill her.”

The deputy froze.

“Get the sheriff,” the prisoner said. “Get Keller.”

The deputy stepped back outside. Whitten started to step through the door, too.

“Not you, piggy,” the prisoner said.

Whitten pointed at the unconscious woman lying on the floor. “She needs a doctor.”

“She can wait.”

Marion felt the prisoner’s breath hot against her neck and ear.

“Are you still with me, muffin?” the prisoner asked.

Speaking past the nightstick pulled tight against her throat was hard, but Marion managed. “I’m still here.” She was surprised at the defiance in her voice.

“You sound spunky. Good. I don’t need you passing out on me when we walk out of here.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” Marion held on to her anger and used it to bolster her strength.

“I hope not. But just so you know, if you do pass out I’m going to drag you out of here anyway.”

Marion forced herself to focus through the panic that threatened to paralyze her. Her heart hammered inside her chest. You can get out of this. Even as she told herself that, though, she realized she had no doubt that the prisoner would kill her.

She couldn’t help thinking how her parents would react if something happened to her. Three weeks ago at an accidental death, she’d seen parents devastated by their son’s overdose on heroin. She didn’t want to put her parents through that.

“Let’s go, muffin,” the prisoner grated. She pushed Marion toward the door. “Stay back, piggy.”

Whitten glared at the prisoner but lifted her hands in the air and stepped back from the door.

Out in the hallway under the bright fluorescent lighting, Marion felt light-headed. Panic ripped at her with sharp claws. Her legs trembled with the desire to run.

The prisoner stayed close behind Marion. She felt the woman’s body pressed against hers. The warmth took away some of the chill of her damp clothing.

Six deputies stood in the hallway with drawn weapons. Sickness swirled in Marion’s stomach. She forced herself to sip air.

“Keep moving, muffin,” the prisoner ordered.

“Y-you’re not h-helping your case,” Marion said. Embarrassment flooded her as she heard her stuttered words.

The prisoner laughed. The sound was totally without mirth. “You sound like you’re still going to try me.”

“I am. Y-you’re not going to g-get out of here.” Marion wished she could keep from stuttering. That would have helped her sound more convincing.

“I’m going to get out of here,” the prisoner replied. “I don’t have a choice about staying here. If I stay here, I’m dead. There are people who’ll kill me long before you ever get me to trial.”

Marion seized on those words and wondered what the woman meant by them.

“If you play your cards right,” the prisoner went on, “you’ll get out of here, too.”

“H-how do I know you w-won’t kill me like you did Marker?”

“I don’t have a reason to kill you.”

“What reason did you have to kill Marker?” Marion couldn’t believe she was asking questions with her life on the line. But she couldn’t be quiet and there were so many questions swimming in her mind.

“That’s my business and none of yours.”

“H-how did you f-find him?”

The woman sounded irritated. “You talk way too much, muffin. This isn’t part of a guided tour. Keep your trap shut.”

Sheriff Frank Keller stepped into view at the end of the hallway. He had a two-handed grip on his revolver and stood with his left foot forward.

Marion closed her eyes for just a moment and resisted the urge to be sick. You’re going to lose that battle one of these times, she told herself.

“Hold it right there,” Keller thundered. His pistol never wavered.

Marion tried to stop, but the prisoner kept pushing her from behind.

“Move,” the prisoner commanded.

“You’re not leaving this building,” Keller declared. “If you don’t cease and desist this instant, I’m going to shoot you.”

Disbelief swept over Marion. She stared at the cavernous mouth of Keller’s big pistol. Surely he was kidding.

“Are you that good a shot?” the prisoner taunted.

Marion knew the woman was crouched tightly behind her. She stared at the unwavering muzzle of the pistol Keller held. Bare inches of the woman had to be exposed.

Keller’s face was cold stone. “I think I am.” He thumbed the hammer back on the pistol. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“I guess we’re going to find out how good you are,” the prisoner said, “because I can’t be here long. I’ve already over-stayed my welcome.”

Knowing that she was trapped, Marion chose to take command of her fate. She rammed her head back into the prisoner’s face. Something crunched. The prisoner’s breath gushed out against the back of Marion’s neck.

Reaching up, Marion caught her captor’s forearm and the loose folds of the jumpsuit just as the nightstick tightened and shut off her wind. She held on tight as she bent forward suddenly.

The prisoner flipped over Marion’s back and slammed against the tiled floor. Blood streamed over the woman’s face as she gazed up at Marion in shock. The prisoner’s recovery was inhumanly quick, though. She pressed her hands against the floor, vaulted to her feet lithe as a cat and crouched.

Marion backed away before the woman could come after her. She didn’t stop until she reached the wall behind her.

“Down on your face,” Keller commanded.

For a moment, the prisoner hesitated. Marion’s breath caught in the back of her throat as certainty that she was about to see the woman executed in front of her eyes surged within her.

Then, with a wry smile through the blood, the prisoner dropped to her knees and put her hands on top of her head. She bent forward till she lay prone on the ground. The movement was fluid and effortless. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor.

Deputies rushed forward and cuffed her as she lay on the ground.

Marion stood on trembling knees, but she stood. She took pride in that. She also took pride in the fact that she’d saved herself in spite of everything.

The prisoner gazed up at Marion in open appraisal. “Not bad, muffin. I didn’t expect that out of you.”

“Get her to lockup,” Keller growled.

The deputies hustled the prisoner away.

Keller surveyed Marion. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Marion nodded. “I think so.” Her stomach churned.

“That was a nice move. Slick.” New appreciation showed in Keller’s hard eyes.

“I took a class in jujitsu while I was in college.”

“Jujitsu? I think they’re teaching that stuff to the federal agents.”

Marion couldn’t help talking. She couldn’t keep quiet, but she didn’t want to talk about what nearly happened. Any topic was better. “Bruce Lee’s role on The Green Hornet got everybody interested in self-defense. I took it to fulfill a phys ed requirement. It was interesting. I was good at it.”

“You were good at it today,” Keller said.

Marion looked at the sheriff. “Would you have shot her?”

The big man hesitated for just a moment. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve never had a prisoner escape. I wasn’t about to start this morning.”

“And if you’d missed?”

Keller smiled and shook his head. “I don’t miss. Truth to tell, Counselor, you just saved her life. Might have been easier all the way around if you’d have let me shoot her.”

Marion couldn’t believe Keller was so casually discussing taking the life of another person. “Killing her isn’t an answer.”

Surprise pulled at Keller’s features. “What do you think you’re going to be doing when you put that woman on trial, Counselor?”

In the bathroom, Marion pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted her face dry. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.

The nausea, thankfully, had subsided. She hadn’t thrown up even though she’d felt she would have once she’d reached the privacy of the bathroom.

You’re okay, she reminded herself. Everything’s going to be all right.

But Keller’s words haunted Marion. She knew she wasn’t going to be directly responsible for the woman’s death. Her actions, the physical evidence at the scene and the testimony of the witness were going to do that.

She was just going to try the case.

Not try it, she amended. Hopefully you’ll get to be part of it. She opened her blouse front and looked at the bruising across her neck and collarbone. After this, Turnbull had better let me on as co-counsel.

She placed her purse on the sink and took out her emergency makeup. Her hands grew steadier as she fixed the damage done by the struggle. While her hands and eyes worked automatically, her mind concentrated on her questions.

When she got out of the bathroom, a deputy directed Marion to Keller. She found the big man standing at the observation window looking into one of the interview rooms.

The female prisoner sat at the small rectangular table inside the featureless room. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and manacles secured her ankles. Cotton balls filled her nostrils.

Keller looked up as Marion entered the room. “How do you take your coffee, Counselor?”

The question took Marion aback. Then she noted the percolator on a small hot plate on the table in the corner. The aroma of the coffee made her hungry.

“It’s fresh perked,” Keller said. “But that’s about the only thing it has going for it. I’d advise disguising the taste a little.”

“Cream. Two sugars.” Marion felt odd watching Keller get her a cup of coffee. “I can get that.”

“I know you can.” Keller poured coffee into a ceramic cup, then poured in cream and dropped in two sugar cubes. He looked around and finally found a saucer to serve it on.

Marion took the coffee gingerly. She’d hoped her hands would be steady, but they weren’t. They shook and the cup and saucer clattered just a little.

“That was pretty scary back there.” Keller didn’t look at Marion when he spoke. His attention was riveted on the woman.

“Yes.” Marion sipped the coffee. It was still so hot she barely tasted it.

“I talked to Whitten before she went to the hospital.”

“How is she?”

Keller nodded. “She’s gonna be fine. Whitten’s one of the toughest women I’ve ever met.”

“What about the other jailer?”

A frown tightened Keller’s face. “Ambulance guys said she probably had a concussion. Maybe a cracked skull and a dislocated jaw. They also said she was lucky she wasn’t dead.”

Marion remembered how smoothly the woman had moved during the fight. “If she’d wanted anyone dead, she would have done it.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

There was no maybe to it. Marion knew she was right. “She chose not to kill them.”

“The same way she chose to kill Marker?” Keller looked at Marion. “Don’t go getting soft on her, Counselor. Whatever else that woman is, she’s a cold-blooded killer.”

On the other side of the one-way glass, the woman sat unmoving. Blood dripped down her face to the jumpsuit. Except for the steady drip of blood, she might have been carved of stone.

“Did Whitten tell you about the fight?” Marion asked.

Keller nodded. “Said she used some kind of karate or something.”

“It wasn’t jujitsu.” Marion sipped her coffee and found it a little cooler. “But it was something organized. Something dangerous.”

“Something like Bruce Lee in The Green Hornet?” Keller smiled mirthlessly.

“Yes. Where would she get specialized training like that?”

“Who said she was trained?”

“Do you think she wasn’t?”

Keller’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the woman. “Oh, I think she was trained. I’ve been contemplating the possibility that the Russians trained her.”

The Russians? Then Marion grasped the meaning behind the suggestion. “You think she’s a spy?”

“The kind of training that woman has? The cold-blooded way she killed Marker?” Keller nodded. “I bet when we figure out who she really is, we’ll find out she’s a Communist spy.”

Although the newspapers and television media kept the threat of a nuclear war in the public eye, Marion didn’t buy into the thinking as much as many others did. She chose to believe the Cold War would defuse itself before international annihilation manifested.

“You think she killed Marker as part of her assignment?” she asked

“Don’t know yet. But I know she intended to leave a message for somebody.”

“Why?”

Keller slipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and took out a thin rectangle covered in clear plastic wrap. “Because she left this at the murder scene.” He held the object out. “Careful when you handle it.”

The evidence was a playing card. Specifically, it was the Queen of Hearts. Dark smudges of fingerprint powder marred the card’s surface and gave the queen a dirty face.

“These are her fingerprints?” Marion asked.

“And Marker’s.”

“That doesn’t mean that she brought the card to the murder scene. Since Marker’s prints are on it, he could have just as easily brought the card.”

“So while she’s pointing a gun at him, with her foot in the middle of his chest, he asks her to take a look at a playing card? Or let’s say Marker did that. Why would she take the card while she’s holding a gun on him?”

Marion handed the card back. “I don’t know.”

Keller tucked the card back into this shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. “I think she used the card because it meant something to Marker. It was something he’d recognize. Since they’ve got a history—”

“You can’t prove that.”

“You don’t just break into a stranger’s motel room, put your foot on his chest and shoot his face off,” Keller said gruffly.

Marion winced.

Keller sighed. “Sorry about that. Sometimes I’m a little too plainspoken.”

“That’s all right.”

“But the fact of the matter, Counselor, is that those two people— Marker and that woman—knew each other before they came here. We’ve just got to figure out how.”

“What do we do now?”

“We talk to her,” Keller said. “See if she’s ready to tell us why she killed Marker.”

Looking at the woman, Marion sincerely doubted that was going to happen.

Someone knocked at the open door. A deputy leaned into the room. “Sheriff Keller? There’s a man in the lobby who says he’s that woman’s attorney. He’s demanding to see her.”

That surprised Marion. She looked at Keller. “Has she called anyone?”

Keller shook his head. “Did the attorney give you a name?”

“Yes, sir. Even gave me a card.” The deputy entered the room and handed it over.

Keller took the card. Marion looked over his shoulder.

Adam D. Gracelyn

Attorney-At-Law

A mild expletive escaped Keller’s lips. He looked at the deputy and nodded. “Bring Gracelyn to me.”

Marion knew the name. The Gracelyns were part of the old money families in Phoenix. She’d never met any of them, but she’d read about them in the Phoenix Sun society pages. There had been something about Adam Gracelyn passing the bar exam a few years ago.

The deputy left.

“This isn’t good,” Keller said quietly.

“Why?”

“Adam Gracelyn’s a real firebrand when you get him riled. With all his daddy’s money, you’d think he’d just settle down to a nice long stay as one of daddy’s corporate lawyers. Instead he signed on with the public defender’s office. He specializes in representing minorities and the disenfranchised. He’s going to be trouble.”

Chapter 6

Gracelyn Ranch

Outside Phoenix, Arizona

Now

David stared at the picture in his sister’s Athena Academy yearbook. His younger sister Allison lived in Washington, D.C., these days, but she kept most of her personal things at the family home.

Besides, knowing Allison, she probably had another yearbook with her. She had two copies of everything. She was the most thoroughly organized person David had ever seen. She currently worked for the National Security Agency in a job so secret she never talked to anyone about it.

Allison had been best friends with Lorraine “Rainy” Miller. But that relationship had been troubled. Even though Allison wouldn’t have admitted it then—and might not even admit it now—she’d been somewhat jealous of Rainy’s successes at the academy. Allison’s own student group, the Graces, had constantly vied with Rainy’s team, the Cassandras, for top honors but had often come out second-best.

The competition had been fierce, and it had also been good for both groups. But the competitive edge had never truly gone away.

Later, when circumstances required Rainy to live with Allison at the Gracelyn home for a while, David had fallen in love with Rainy like he’d never fallen for a woman before.

But that didn’t work out, did it? David chided himself. And you’ve certainly got more to do than spend your morning moping over old yearbooks and wondering what might have been.

Still, he stared at the picture of Rainy and the group of girls she’d mentored through the academy. All of them were there: Kayla Ryan, Tory Patton, Alexandra Forsythe, Josephine Lockworth, Samantha St. John, Darcy Steele and Rainy at their center.

The picture had been taken somewhere in the hinterlands of the White Tank Mountains where the academy was located. The Cassandras had to have been on a team-based excursion. All of them wore climbing gear.

David thought he could remember the story. Allison had told him one version of it, and Rainy had given him another.

In the picture, Rainy was young. She had to have been seventeen, maybe eighteen. She’d only gotten more beautiful and more defined as she’d gotten older.

For a while, David and Rainy had been close. Then something happened. He still hadn’t been sure what. But while he’d been away at college, Rainy had grown distrustful of him. Then she’d left the Gracelyn home.

The next time he’d heard about her had been when she’d enrolled at Harvard as he was graduating. They’d just never connected again. Then she’d gotten married.

Now she was dead.

Silently David cursed Winter Archer’s presence at the house for bringing up all the old memories and pain. He cursed Christine Evans as well, but he was equally certain that Christine was right. The answers to the puzzle of Rainy’s death, the genetically mutated children and the kidnappings lay in his mother’s past.

He just didn’t know how he was going to handle Winter Archer’s investigation without going crazy thinking about what could have been.

Winter walked through the big, silent house to David’s office. During the last three days, they’d seen each other very little. She had the distinct impression that had been because David wanted it that way.

If she hadn’t reached an impasse in her research, or if the story about the woman who had murdered Colonel Thomas Marker hadn’t been so compelling, Winter knew she wouldn’t have sought David out now.

The sooner you get out of here, the better off you’re going to be. You need to be back home in L.A. working on another book. You’re at your best when you’re working.

If it hadn’t been for Christine—and now her own curiosity— Winter knew she’d have been gone in a heartbeat. But Christine was involved, and she couldn’t walk away from that story without knowing the rest of it.

News about Marker’s murder had gradually subsided. In the end, it had disappeared. There were only a couple of footnotes that let her know Marker’s body had been shipped back to distant family members.

Of course, given what had happened in 1968 at about the same time, losing sight of one unexplained murder wasn’t a big thing. The assassination that had taken place at around the same time had shaken the world.

David’s study door was open. Winter crossed to it and lifted a hand to rap against the door frame. The sight of him sitting so grim and silent at the desk gave her pause. He was a beautiful man. He sat with his shirtsleeves rolled nearly to his elbows and his tie at half-mast. He had one hand against his head with his fingers threaded through his hair.

There was something wounded and innocent in his posture. All those feelings she’d felt back when she was a girl echoed within her.

You’re still crushing after all these years? Winter couldn’t believe it. Get over it. You don’t have time for this. And if he wasn’t interested back then, he’s definitely not going to be interested now.

Then she saw he was staring at a book lying open on his desk. As she watched, he carefully thumbed through pages filled with pictures.

A photo album? Winter wasn’t sure. But the possibility made her feel badly. Her presence there, in the house where he’d known his mother, had to have made that absence even sharper and more empty. Oh, Christine, you can’t have known what you were going to trigger.

Winter knocked.

David looked up immediately. Guilt made his movements jerky as he closed the book and slid it to one side.

“Yes?” he said.

“I need more information.”

David leaned back in the chair. “You have everything.”

Slightly irritated that he didn’t ask her in, Winter crossed the threshold and entered the room anyway. She wasn’t a vampire. Withholding an invitation wasn’t going to keep her out.

“I have most of everything,” she said. “I’ve noticed an obvious discrepancy but have been too tactful to mention it.” She folded her arms over her breasts, then noticed she was in a defensive posture and grew angry with herself. David Gracelyn wasn’t going to make her feel threatened.

He held her gaze for a moment. “What do you think you’re missing?”

“Your mother journaled extensively. Some of her work is used in Athena Academy curriculum. I’ve read it. A few of her books, mainly collections of essays and speeches, are in the library. In all of those books, she referred to journal entries—sometimes even printing them in their entirety—that dealt with those writings.”

David didn’t say anything.

“Therefore, I submit that those journals she referenced have to exist somewhere,” Winter said.

Clasping his hands before him, elbows on the desk, David settled his chin on his thumbs. “My mother’s personal writings are—well, they’re personal.”

“I’ll keep them that way. No matter what they are, I need to take a look at them. Some of them.”

Frowning, David leaned back in his chair and crossed his own arms. Then he noticed the unconscious behavior and gripped the chair arms.

“You’ve found something,” he said.

Winter hated revealing anything before she was certain of its validity. Unfortunately she was certain David was resolved not to let her have anything unless he knew what she was looking for.

“Possibly,” she answered.

“What?”

For a moment Winter considered holding her ground and refusing to answer. She knew that David would fight, though, and she didn’t have the energy to argue. Besides that, she was eager to know if she truly had something or if she was following a false lead.

“Did your mother ever tell you how she met your father?” Winter countered.

“During the course of their work.”

“She never mentioned any mitigating circumstances?”

“Were there any?”

Winter drew a breath. She hated when interviewees tried playing cagey with their answers. Things usually got much harder than they had to be. “Yes.”

“What?”

Taking out her iPAQ/phone, Winter checked the time. It was 12:43 p.m. “Have you had lunch?”

David frowned again.

Even his frowns are sexy. Winter gave herself a mental shake. Do not get derailed. Focus on getting the journals.

“What difference would my having lunch make?” David asked.

“If you hadn’t eaten, I thought I could tell you the story over lunch.”

“I’ve got too much to do to leave here.” David gestured at the desk.

“Surely this big house has a kitchen. If you don’t know the way, maybe we could ask Gary.” Winter resented the sarcasm at once, but it was far too late. The genie was out of the bottle. She scrambled for something to say that would take the sting out of her words.

David pushed up from the desk. “I know the way to the kitchen. But you’re going to have to produce a strong argument to get at my mother’s journals.” He strode through the door without a backward glance.

Curbing a response, Winter silently watched him walk away. The khaki pants fit him well, and it was obvious he kept himself in great shape. After a moment, she followed.

“You know how to cook?”

David resented the question. He pulled his head out of the massive refrigerator and glared at Winter. She sat demurely at the island and looked as if the question was more casual curiosity than a thinly veiled insult.

“Yes, I know how to cook. My mother taught me. So did my father.” David took a deep breath as he looked around the spacious kitchen. “This is one of the places where I miss her most. When she was at home, she often spent part of the day in here. On good days, Allison and I got to prepare a meal with her.”

Winter had the decency to look contrite. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and you didn’t. But you did intend to be crass, and you were.”

Winter looked as though she were going to say something, then thought better of it. She broke their gaze and looked down at her P.D.A.

And you’re not exactly the charming host, either, are you? David could hear his mother remonstrating him over his manners.

Marion Gracelyn had always believed the kitchen was a safe haven for everyone. He’d seen her entertain belligerent dinner guests over steaming pots and pans. Most of the time she’d managed to reach some accord right there in the kitchen.

“Look,” he said finally, “maybe we’re both getting on each other’s nerves a little.”

“You think?”

The reply was smart-ass, but David sensed there was no malice attached. “Yeah. So what are you in the mood for?”

Her hesitation surprised him. As he recalled, Winter Archer had always had an answer for everything.

“Surprise me,” she replied finally.

“I missed breakfast this morning, too. Maybe we could have a really late brunch.”

“All right.”

“While I cook, maybe you could talk.”

By the time Winter finished reiterating what she’d learned about Colonel Thomas Marker’s murder and the strange woman who had briefly taken Marion Hart prisoner in the county jail, David had prepared blueberry waffles from scratch, omelets, spicy diced potatoes and onions and bacon and link sausage. He’d even prepared the link sausages by boiling them in water in a covered frying pan instead of frying them.

“Not exactly what my nutritionist would have recommended,” Winter commented as she finally surrendered and pushed her plate away.

“Maybe next time you could cook,” David growled.

For a moment Winter was so lost in the idea of a next time and the possibility of cooking breakfast she forgot to be slightly insulted. That had been the intention, though.

“I can cook,” Winter replied.

David glowered at her doubtfully.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult. I enjoyed breakfast. It was good.”

Slightly mollified, David nodded. He finished the last bite of blueberry waffle and pushed his plate away.

Without a word, Winter got up and started clearing the dishes.

“What are you doing?” David asked.

“You cooked. The least I can do is clean up the mess.” Winter opened the taps at the sink and looked around for dishwashing liquid.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t want to leave it. Gary probably has enough to do.” Winter looked under the sink.

“There’s a dishwasher.”

“There aren’t that many dishes.” After finding the dishwashing liquid under the sink, Winter squeezed some into the sink and turned the water on.

“Are you always this pigheaded?” David growled. His chair scraped as he got up.

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