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  That came as a surprise. She laughed. "Right. Next I'll sound like a priest. Just as likely."

  But he stayed relaxed, smiling back at her. "No. I meant that was right out of a TV show or something—detective thinking, you know? You're right. I was the youngest."

  "Sounds nice—family meals."

  Neither his expression nor his voice changed as he asked, "You ever see any home movies?"

  She hesitated a moment, wondering where he was going. "You mean like videos? Family-at-the-beach things? Sure, everyone's seen those. Awful."

  "But happy, right? Everybody smiling, waving at the camera."

  He seemed to be awaiting a response. "Yeah," she finally said.

  "Yeah," he repeated meditatively. "Always happy, and always called home movies."

  She got the point. "So maybe your family meals weren't all that great, or learning to cook from your mom."

  He smiled wistfully before admitting, "Right."

  She watched him chewing slowly, and thought of them both sitting here, thrown together in an illegal enterprise, from totally different worlds, neither one of them knowing the slightest thing about the other. She knew what her role was, and she knew of her own duplicity. What about him, aside from the criminal record Joe had told her about? What was he, truly? Certainly more than any run-of-the-mill deadbeat thug.

  A pair of headlights flashed against the window. Smoothly, quickly, and without a sound, Manuel was on his feet, heading toward the door to the garage, the half-eaten meal abandoned on its plate. "Meet them at the front," was all he said.

  His speed and sudden sense of purpose caught her unaware, reminding her abruptly of the man who was no longer the philosophical youngest of five, learning to cook at his mother's side, but instead someone with a distinctly practical view of the value of life and death.

  She walked to the entryway and opened the front door, turning on the porch light so the camera could better pick out the license plate of the two men walking toward her from the car in the driveway.

  "Hey" one of the men called out. "Kill the lights, bitch."

  She waited a couple of seconds before complying. "Up yours, asshole. I wanna see who I'm dealing with."

  The second man laughed. "Dealing with. That's good. Real funny. Where's Manuel?"

  "Behind you," came a quiet voice from the darkness.

  Both men swung around, their hands diving under their clothes for weapons.

  Manuel emerged into the light coming from the window "Don't bother. You'd both be dead."

  "Jesus, man. What the fuck you doin'?"

  Manuel gestured to both of them to go into the house ahead of him. "Protecting myself. You got the stuff?"

  "Sure."

  Sam stepped back to let them in, studying their faces as they passed by. One of them she recognized from Holyoke as a man nicknamed Flaco. The other was new to her.

  "How're you doin'?" she asked. "I'm Greta."

  Flaco, the one with the mouth, stared at her contemptuously. "We know who you are, bitch."

  Without pause, she slapped him across the face, causing his hands to fly up, and then kneed him in the groin, dropping him flat to the ground, where he rolled around swearing. By the time he reached for his gun, barely two seconds later, Sam had already yanked it from his belt and was pointing it at his head.

  "Say my name," she ordered him.

  His companion was frozen in place, scared and confused, his eyes wide with surprise. Manuel was leaning against the wall, smiling, keeping everyone in view.

  "Say my name," Sam repeated.

  "What the hell?" complained Flaco. "Shit."

  She stepped on his knee, making him cry out.

  "You that stupid?" she asked.

  "Greta. Damn."

  Sam twirled the gun around and dropped it in Flaco's lap, making him jump one last time. "Just 'Greta' is fine."

  He stared at her, amazed, the gun now in his hand, but not pointed at her, fully aware of Manuel's presence and realizing the encounter was over whether he liked it or not. "You are one crazy fucker, you know that?"

  She smiled down at him. "Yeah, and now you do, too. You got the stuff?"

  Wincing, Flaco pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall. He tucked the gun away and removed a large, flat, plastic bag from under his oversized shirt, where he'd taped it to his bare chest. Almost reluctantly, he extended it to her.

  Sam didn't move. Flaco looked at her, confused, until Manuel stepped forward, slowly bent over, and took it from him. "Gracias."

  The two mules didn't stay the night, although Sam extended the offer. Still limping, Flaco said he'd sooner sleep in the street than under the same roof with her—something about Sam strangling him as he slept for the hell of it. It was an image she was happy to have reported back to Holyoke.

  "Was that fun?" Manuel asked later as they were burying the bulk of the shipment in the basement.

  "What? Knocking him around? I didn't hurt him."

  "That's not what I asked."

  She was sitting on a cardboard box, her back against the wall, as he smoothed over the hiding spot so that it blended with the rest of the dirt floor. "I don't like it when people talk to me like that. If I deserve it, I don't mind so much, but that asshole doesn't even know me."

  Manuel straightened and dusted off his hands against one another. "He does now. That was part of the point, right?"

  As before at the kitchen table, she was caught off guard by his insight. "Can't hurt. I'm trying to build something here. I can't do that unless I get respect. Being a woman is hardly my strong suit with guys like that."

  He extended his hands to her, which she instinctively grasped. He pulled her gently to a standing position so close to him, they were almost touching.

  "It is to someone like me, though," he said softly.

  She looked up at him, enjoying him, thinking back to her angry run-in with Willy earlier. Greta would do this, she thought. Hell, she'd jump at the chance. And Sam wasn't sure she'd fault her.

  Manuel placed his hands on her waist, moving them slowly up her sides. She couldn't resist doing the same, and found the heat and hardness of him under his thin shirt amazingly stimulating.

  Their faces were only inches apart.

  "I don't know," she murmured, hanging on by a thread.

  Which seemed to be all he needed. "Then we shouldn't do this. Not yet."

  He hadn't moved, but she tilted her head back to better focus on him, as surprised at his comment as by her own disappointment. "We shouldn't?" she blurted out.

  "Not if you have doubts."

  She laughed and placed her forehead against his chest. Christ, did she have doubts. "You're a disgrace to the stereotype," she said.

  He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you."

  * * *

  Later that night, lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, Sam couldn't believe what she'd almost done—probably would have done, if not for Manuel. What the hell had that been all about?

  There were paradoxical assumptions among cops concerning undercover work. It was death on marriages and relationships; half your support team wasted no time believing you were dirty; it was dangerous and frightening and lonely and made you paranoid. It was also a constant question in every cop's mind—what would it be like? As one of the high-mark achievements in the profession, akin to the gold shield or the special weapons teams, it also stood apart from them, teasing like a dangerous double dare—a knife edge between destruction and the ultimate high.

  Except for moments like this.

  Longing for sleep, unable to nod off, Sam began wondering if the real peril of undercover work lay less in the danger and deceit, and more in the subtle corrosiveness of believing you could take on two separate personalities.

  Having almost gone to bed with Manuel Ruiz was bad enough. Wondering when she might face such a choice again—perhaps a more lethal one—and knowing now that she could make the wrong decision, that was truly des
tabilizing.

  She was going to have to watch Greta as never before.

  Chapter 16

  George Backer sat comfortably at the metal table in the interrogation room, an amused expression on his face, as if he were listening to a friend's long-winded tall tale after a satisfying meal. Instead, sitting opposite him, were Peter Bullis and Lester Spinney.

  Bullis was doing the talking. "George, you do understand these rights as I've explained them to you, right? If you talk to us, it's by your own free will."

  "Sure," George said. "Like I said, I'd sooner deal with you direct. But I am gonna get a deal. I mean, that's the understanding. I want that part straight."

  "You'll get a deal," Bullis said vaguely.

  "A 'get out of jail free card'?" George asked, smiling.

  "What do you think?"

  He laughed. "Well, doesn't hurt to ask. You could've lied just then."

  "We're professionals, George, you and me. That deserves some respect."

  George looked satisfied. "Cool." He pointed casually at the mirrored window overlooking the room. "Then maybe the lawyer standing behind that thing can come in here and tell me exactly what we're talking about, 'cause, professional or not, I know you guys don't call the shots, and you'll lie your asses off to make me think different."

  "You been watching too much TV, Schemer," Peter told him, flattering him with the use of his nickname. "We don't have the time or the money to have a prosecutor stare at you being a wiseass."

  "I thought we were getting along so good, too," the young man responded. "Guess I'll have to clam up, then."

  "I wonder, George," Lester Spinney said. "What cards do you think you're holding right now? Just out of curiosity."

  Backer made an equivocal face. "I've got a lot to offer. I told you that. Now, we're sitting here, one of me and two of you. You're not a local, like Detective Bullis here, or I'd know you. Maybe you're federal, maybe not, but you're fancy somehow. That means you want to deal. Also means you carry weight."

  Spinney glanced at Bullis, who shrugged. "Yeah, I do," he admitted. "What charges do you think you're looking at?"

  Backer paused a moment. "B and E?"

  Spinney nodded. "Yup. That and possession of stolen property, possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to distribute, and probably conspiracy to commit, based on how you usually work with others on these deals. We can turn this into a federal rap on the quantity of drugs alone. Not to mention we got you locked into a few dozen other break-ins."

  George Backer's eyes narrowed, his poise disturbed. "You can't make all that stick. Half of it's bullshit."

  Lester looked unconvinced. "I don't know. You're the one who said I carry weight. You realize I have my very own prosecutor? And we have an amazing relationship with a whole bunch of judges. We could send you up for years. I would personally make a project out of it—maybe to make a point that not everybody gets off light in Vermont."

  Backer pressed his lips together, feeling less sure of himself. "Why all the heat? I told you I'd deal."

  "Because," Bullis spoke up again, pointing at Lester, "while you may not know him, I do know you, George, and I know how you.play the odds. That's been okay in the past—we all know the game. But this is outside the game. You need to realize that. I want you to fully understand that if you hold anything back, if you create any little fiction, the consequences will be very hard. Remember you commenting that this gentleman might be federal? The feds ain't Vermont, and when they send you up, it won't be to one of the sandlots around here."

  Backer crossed his arms and slumped in his chair. "This is nuts. I told you I'd deal."

  Lester Spinney gave him a wide smile. "Then let's get started."

  * * *

  Gail Zigman woke with a start, her body tense, her eyes wide, trying against common sense to see through the darkness surrounding her. Out of habit, after years of similar paranoid awakenings, she simultaneously reached under the bed for the handgun Joe had taught her to use and glanced at the security control panel mounted next to her bed. One red light was silently blinking on and off, indicating a breach. Somewhere a door or window was open.

  There'd been a time when both the hardware and her reliance on it would have seemed an absurdity. One of the appeals of the area was its sense of serenity. She knew people in Vermont who had no idea where their front door keys were—hadn't used them in years.

  But the rape had taught her otherwise. Late at night, in the presumed safety of her own home, she'd been reeducated. Now she had a gun, multiple locks, powerful motion detection lights outside, and a high-end security system connecting her directly to the police.

  Except that ever since Debbie moved in, Gail hadn't turned all of it on. The girl had complained that the system made her feel like she was in prison, that Gail obviously didn't trust her enough to let her come and go at will.

  Against her better judgment, Gail had acceded to the young woman's demands.

  She now lay very still in bed, listening, wondering what it was that had bolted her from sleep.

  She heard nothing. Only she and Debbie were in the house. Rachel had announced earlier she'd be sleeping at the hospital. And Gail couldn't swear to Debbie's whereabouts.

  She slipped out from under the covers, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and, gun in hand, stepped out into the carpeted hallway.

  Her bedroom was on the second story, the main staircase to the left at the end of the hall. She moved slowly, keeping next to the wall, hoping the floor wouldn't squeak there.

  At the top of the stairs, she stopped to catch her breath, shifted the gun from one hand to the other, and wiped her sweaty palm against her leg. Before her, the staircase fell away like a plunge into a well. She started down.

  At the bottom, she finally heard something, not much more than the soft hissing of an object being pulled along a polished hardwood floor.

  Only then did she think about calling 911. Why she hadn't earlier confused her at first, until she acknowledged what her subconscious had apparently already suspected—that this might have something to do with her recently adopted ward.

  Taking slim comfort in that possibility, she put the gun into her back pocket, happy to be rid of it, and continued very quietly toward the source of the muted noise, still fighting the panic inside her.

  From the living room door, she saw two shadows outlined against the open doors to the deck, each at one end of a large, square black void they were struggling to push across the floor. She could hear them breathing with the effort.

  She also recognized one of the shadows.

  Anger replacing fright, she hit the wall switch beside her, freezing Debbie Holton and her boyfriend, Nelson, with Gail's large TV set between them.

  Gail didn't say a word.

  Debbie's eyes were as big as quarters. "Hi, Gail. This doesn't look too good, does it?"

  Gail had to think about that for a moment, caught up as she was in a swirl of emotions. She tried to keep her voice level. "No. Were you hoping to sell that?"

  As she spoke, she glanced around and found a number of things already missing.

  "I'm sorry," Debbie said, straightening and putting on an anguished face. "I just had to get some more stuff. I'm hurtin'."

  Gail stared at her. "You look pretty good to me. If you were really hurting, you wouldn't be moving furniture around. I'm guessing Mr. Idiot here has already given you a fix. How much of my stuff have you already moved out?"

  Nelson straightened and stuck his thin chest out. "Hey, lady. The name is Kicker."

  "The name," Gail retorted, dragging out the last word, "is Nelson, asshole, and you keep quiet."

  Nelson's mouth dropped open. Gail addressed Debbie, suddenly feeling lighter in some way, as if a migraine had been lifted after days of turmoil. "This was the plan from the start, right? Let the crazy rich woman work out her guilt over Laurie and then rip her off?"

  Debbie's expression turned sour. "You came on to me, r
emember? You never even bothered finding out what I wanted. You just assumed I was some stupid junkie who needed all the help she could get. You used me for your guilt trip. Why shouldn't I use you, too?" She waved her hand around in a sweeping gesture. "You live all alone in a huge house with all this junk. What do you need it for? To show it off to your friends? Sit around drinking French wine and talk about how you're going to help the poor. You people are so full of shit. You have no clue."

  Nelson had taken the opportunity during this speech to collect himself, and now took a few steps in Gail's direction. "Yeah," he said. "You rich bitches are all the same—fancied up and looking good. Fuckin' useless." He paused, getting closer, and added with a cartoonish leer, "Or maybe just good enough for that, if nothing else. You got nuthin' on under that T-shirt, do you?"

  Gail straightened as if stung, the sudden change of subject giving her stomach a lurch. She began to feel dizzy, as if being pulled into a hothouse of repressed memories. Watching this boy approach, pulling a knife out of his pocket, she didn't hear Debbie ask, "What're you doin', Nelson? Cut the shit." Instead, she saw his face change shape and appearance and become the man who'd assaulted her with another knife so many years ago.

  Nelson was close enough now that he could reach out with his knife and barely touch her left breast with the tip of it. "What d'you think? Want to give it a try? Debbie can keep us company."

  Her heartbeat pounding in her temples, Gail removed the gun from her back pocket, shoved the barrel into Nelson's nostril, and pulled back the hammer.

  Speaking in a whisper through her almost closed throat, she told him, "I don't think so. Drop the knife or die."

  He dropped the knife.

  "Ohmygod," Debbie said, shifting from foot to foot, waving her hands. "Please, Gail, don't do it. We'll put everything back. I'm real sorry. We just wanted the money. I didn't know he'd do this. He's just stupid is all. He didn't mean it."

  Gail ignored her, her eyes fixed on his. "Get on your knees."