Just Another Tango
by Tinnean

I knew I wasn’t dreaming, but Clay was having such a good time, I didn’t want to spoil his fun, so I just lay on the bed and let him explore my body, and pretended to be asleep.

But when he started licking a path from behind my right knee up my thigh to the curve of my ass, I couldn’t prevent a moan and an encouraging wriggle. I didn’t even have to spread my legs more. He did that for me. His strong fingers kneaded my ass cheeks, then parted them, and he began flicking his tongue against my hole. The man was obviously determined to drive me out of my mind.

Who’d have thought a CIA suit could have such a talented tongue?

Abruptly, he turned his head and sank his teeth into a cheek. "Hey!"

"I knew you weren’t sleeping, Clark." He pulled me up onto my knees, and the condom-covered head of his dick started pushing into me. "Looks like the CIA aren’t the only ones who like to take it up the ass!"

"Fuck, Clay, don’t make me laugh!"

He shoved all the way into me. That burn was starting to become familiar, and I groaned. Clay froze. "Did I hurt you, Clark?" He was afraid he had been too rough with me? That was sweet. Dumb, but sweet.

"You’re CIA, Webb! You couldn’t hurt anyone DSD on your best day!" I taunted and thrust back against him.

"Oh, no? I think I’ve been taking it too easy with you, tough guy. I’m going to fuck you into tomorrow, Clark. You’re going to be so used to the feel of my cock in your ass, if I haven’t had you at least once a day you’re going to wonder if I don’t…" He paused just long enough for me to notice, but what he was doing felt too good for me to care what he might have said. "… don’t want you any more." He took a piece of skin at the nape of my neck between his lips and worked it hard enough to bruise.

"Promises, promises," I mocked, then groaned again as he changed the angle of his strokes and hit my prostate. "Oh, fuck! I like when you do that!" I reached for my dick, but he grabbed my wrist.

"No."

"What? What are you doing, Webb?" I growled. Clay’s fingers covered mine. The need to come was growing almost unbearable, and if he stopped me from touching myself… I was going to have to hurt him.

"No." He licked the spot on the back of my neck. "I want you to come just from me fucking you." He bit down.

"Are you crazy, Clay? Let me go! You can’t… jesus fucking god!" It seemed that he could. He targeted my prostate with a series of jabs that shot me higher and higher. I tightened my fingers in his and turned my head into the pillow. If I hadn’t bit down I would have been howling like a banshee and scaring the neighbors. My eyeballs felt as if they were about to pop out of my head. The top of my head felt as if it was about to explode. I bucked onto him to get him deeper inside me.

"Take me, Clark! Take every bit of me!" He licked the spot on the back of my neck, then bit down again and held on. If I tried to break his grip I’d hurt myself, but I had no intention of struggling against him. I arched my neck back, and he rocked into me. It was like a nuclear reaction; the ripples of my climax exploded from the spot Clay was repeatedly nailing. I clamped down inner muscles and milked him for all I was worth, determined not to come alone. He was coming along for the ride if I had to drag his orgasm from him. He gave a startled cry, releasing my neck, and I could feel him pulse in me.

"Bite me, damn it! Bite me, Clay!" I gritted out. His mouth was back on me, his teeth closing over the muscle. His fingers gripped mine as he shivered, and then he collapsed bonelessly against my back. I stayed in that position for as long as I could, really enjoying the feel of him on me and in me. His arms were around me, and his fingers combed through the hair that formed an inverted triangle from my nipples down past my navel. Finally I couldn't maintain it any longer, and eased down onto the mattress with him still covering me. "Ah, fuck! I'm in the wet spot!" He gave a huff of laughter. "Not funny, Webb!"

"Just give me a second, Clark, and I'll get off you."

"No, that's not acceptable either. Hold on. Are you holding on?" He laughed again, and there was a drowsy quality to it this time, but his arms tightened around my chest. I inched cautiously toward the center of the bed. With a satisfied sigh, I relaxed into a spot that was dry and slipped into sleep.

****

"Another cup, Clark?" Clay brought over the carafe of coffee and refilled my cup. I raised it to him in a silent toast and sipped appreciatively. This was good coffee, freshly ground from the beans, not like the canned brands I stocked up on. I could really get used to this breakfast with a lover stuff.

Jesus, what was I thinking? I put the cup down, snapped the newspaper, and raised the section that I’d been reading to conceal my expression. Clay took the edge between his fingers and pulled in down. I made sure I had a mocking grin curving my lips when I met his eyes.

The sneaky CIA spook kissed me!

"I have to get dressed now, Clark. I’m usually ready to leave to meet Mother by this time."

"Oh, yeah? What held you up today?" As if I didn’t know. We’d gone after each other so many times that when we finally fell asleep, we slept longer than Clay had intended.

Clay grinned at me, leaned forward, and I thought he was going to brush a kiss against my mouth again. Instead he tugged on my ear. "Smart ass." He was gone before I could think of a clever retort to that.

I felt as if I’d been knocked on my ass. What was wrong with me? I never let anyone get to me! The newspaper was open before me; I stared blindly at the print.

He was back before I realized it. "I should be home by half past two, at the latest," he said as he straightened the sleeves of the black short coat he’d pulled on over a black silk moiré vest. "I'll shower off the smell of horse, and then we can go to the museum." He wore fawn jodhpurs. Sleek boots with stainless steel spurs at his heels covered his calves, and he dangled a helmet from his fingers by its chin-strap. Under his arm was a riding crop.

Clay looked so good my cock leaped to attention. //I say we strip those fancy-ass clothes from his body and fuck him until he knows he’s ours!// I stared down at my lap in irritation. //Please?//

"Don’t whine!" I growled under my breath.

"You say something, Clark?" He had turned away to retrieve his keys from a hook where he had placed them the night before.

I needed to distract myself. "Uh… You intend to use that thing?" I asked, gesturing to the short whip.

His face lit up with humor. God, he looked so young, so relaxed. "I wouldn’t dream of it. Testament would toss me on my ass and step on me if I tried something like that with him." He laughed at my expression. "How about dinner at Raphael's after the museum?"

I licked suddenly dry lips, and somehow managed to drag my mind away from images of his ass. "Sounds good. And… uh… I promise not to go poking around your house."

He frowned in exasperation, but then the expression melted into a grin. "Clark, I'm sure you know better than I do where everything is!" I cocked an eyebrow at him, and he laughed outright. "And don’t work too hard, all right?" Clay thought he knew me well enough to second guess my activities? Well, fuck.

"I’m just going back home to start packing." Something else struck me. "Clay, what will you tell her?"

"My mother? The truth, if she asks," he shrugged, and my breath caught in my throat. He’d tell his mother we were lovers? "Your apartment was damaged, and you’re staying with me until you can find another place."

I let my breath out. Porter Webb was a lady. She might not object to me running tame in her son’s house, but how would she feel if she learned I was sleeping with him?

"Don’t worry about it, Clark." Clay curled his hand around the base of my skull and pulled my head down. His lips were warm as he touched them to mine. He pressed the button that would open his garage door from inside the house and left. Within minutes, he was back in the house.

"Miss me already?" Clay scowled at me, and I grew tense. "What’s wrong? Change your mind about trusting me?"

"Clark, you’re blocking the drive. Move your freaking car, would you?"

It was my turn to laugh. I went upstairs and dressed quickly, then hurried outside, backed my car out of his driveway, and parked it at the curb.

Once he had driven off, I went back inside, retrieved my cell phone, and dialed R&D.

"Romero."

"This is Palmer. How is that little project coming along?"

"Hey! Palmer!" A heavy Brooklyn accent assaulted my ear. "Glad you called. Got it all set to go! Just needed a little fine-tunin’. Of course, the heavy pollen count we been gettin' lately will work in our favor. I monitored a bunch of pharmacies, and there's a big demand for prescription refills for this medication."

"Good work, Romero. I'll pick it up first thing in the morning."

"Sure thing, Palmer. It'll be ready for you! And Palmer, work this fast, this good: it’s gonna cost you, big time!"

"Why am I not surprised?" I groused. "The usual fee?"

"Yep."

"You got it, Romero. See you tomorrow." Everything was under control.

Being a good guest, I straightened the bed, cleaned up the kitchen, and locked up Clay’s house before I drove back to my apartment. The head of maintenance was sure to have packing boxes stored away somewhere, and I’d see what I could salvage.

****

When Clay returned from his ride with Porter Webb, he hung up his riding clothes and promised he wouldn’t be too long getting cleaned up.

"No rush, Clay," I said, so softly he couldn’t hear me. I had plans for him. I peeled off my clothes and followed him into the shower. The warm spray beat down on us.

"Clark, what…?" Those were his last coherent words as I turned off the taps. I pushed him up against the tiled wall, dropped to my knees, and proceeded to blow his… mind among other things.

My dick was half hard as it lay against my thigh, but by the time I swallowed his come that had changed. He slid down onto my lap, his legs on either side of my thighs. While he’d been moaning and shivering, I’d managed to wrestle on a condom I’d stashed in the bath and covered it with the lube that I’d placed there also. I parted his cheeks and nudged his hole with my cock. His arms were wrapped around me, his fingers digging into my shoulders as he impaled himself on my dick, and he just held on. I tried not to move for as long as possible, but the heat and the tightness of his back passage drove me over the edge. I rocked up into him four, five, six times, and came hard. Clay looked absolutely stunned. I was supremely satisfied.

I’d always wanted to fuck in the shower. I never had because I’d never trusted any of the men or women who had been in my bed. As far as I had been concerned, I’d owed my partners nothing more than a satisfying fuck. We would come, I would encourage them to dress, and they would leave. After all, if I had paid for the room, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one doing the leaving.

Clayton Webb, on the other hand, had grown up in a world that was different from the one in which I was raised. His mother loved him, and he could trust a person enough to have a relationship with them. So why hadn’t any of his lovers done that for him?

Because none of the assholes had known how special he was?

Because none of them had been me? I stopped that train of thought immediately.

I disposed of the condom and used the shower attachment to rinse us off. He needed some help getting dry. I used my mouth as much as the towel. We went back into the bedroom and began to dress. "Good thing the Museum is opened until six on Sundays," he murmured.

"You sure you still want to go? We could…" I gestured to the bed.

"Oh, no, Clark!" he said sharply. "You’ll think I’m easy, start taking me for granted, and the next thing I know, you won’t bring me flowers."

What the fuck? He couldn’t have hit his head in the shower and confused me with someone else, could he? But he’d said my name. "Clay, I’ve never brought you flowers."

"There, you see! It’s started already!" His face was flushed, and I’d never seen that expression on it before. He turned away from me, and his shoulders shook. Oh, shit, what had I done? It was only when I saw he was struggling to contain laughter that I realized he was teasing me.

It was my turn to be stunned. My reputation was such that no one had ever dared tease me before. If they had, the odds of them surviving were nil. To my surprise, I found that I liked Clay being playful. But I scowled and cuffed his shoulder.

We went to the museum and wandered through the East Building, which housed the exhibit, Small French Paintings. Viewing them always relaxed me, and I found myself more comfortable with Clay than with anyone I had been with in ages. And then I realized I hadn’t ever been with anyone like this, ever.

Before I could begin to get nervous about that, he pointed out his favorite Matisse and Degas, distracting me. I preferred the Cézannes myself. Time passed quickly, or maybe it was just the company. We were arguing the qualities of Impressionist versus Post-Impressionist when a security guard approached us. "We’re closing, gentlemen."

Clay glanced at his watch. "We’re going to have to hurry, or they won’t hold our table." He smiled a thank you at the guard. "I called for a reservation before I left the Club," he told me as we left.

He had insisted on driving, and we went to the parking garage where his Lexus was. Traffic was light, and we made good time driving back to Alexandria. I sat with an arm over the seat back, watching as… as my lover competently handled the powerful vehicle. We were lucky enough to find a space not too far from Raphael’s, and walked into the softly lit restaurant. Clay gave his name to the maitre d’, and we were led to the alcove where we had dined for my birthday.

He had asked for the same table? I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I’d think about it later, after I’d fucked him again.

We sat down and examined the menus. The waiter took our order, and returned to place a basket of bread sticks on the table. The wine steward presented Clay with a vintage he seemed happy with, and he poured our glasses.

We waited for our appetizers to be prepared, chatted desultorily about this and that, and somehow the conversation came around to the 1980 Olympics, in which we neither were able to participate because the U.S. boycotted the summer games in Moscow.

"Do you regret not being able to try for the gold?" Clay asked.

"What do you mean, ‘try’? I’d have taken it for sure!" I reached for a breadstick, but before I could bite off the tip, Clay grabbed up one himself.

"En garde," he murmured, holding the breadstick as if it were an epee, and I remembered that he had been on the 1988 Pentathlon team, where fencing was part of the program.

"Oh, baby, you don’t want to duel with me!"

"Don’t I, Clark?" I wanted to kiss that smile off his mouth. He made the first move, and I countered smoothly. Remise, riposte, beat-and-attack. We subsided and laid down our ‘weapons’ only when our waiter brought out the appetizers.

For starters, Clay had oil poached shrimp and squid. His lips closed over the shrimp and drew it slowly off his fork, his tongue neatly catching a drop of the sauce. In helpless mimicry, my tongue swept over my own lips. I nearly moaned from how aroused his action made me. "Want to try some, Clark?"

I cleared my throat. "I don’t eat anything that has more arms than I do." I started in on the grilled littleneck clams. My appetizer came with toasted garlic bread. I slipped a couple of points onto Clay’s plate; I didn’t want to be the only one with garlic breath.

After the first course had been cleared away, Clay picked up his breadstick again. "Humor me, Clark."

I shook my head. "You won’t win, you know."

He smiled again and moved unexpectedly, tapping my wrist. "Touché! Concede!"

"Not in this lifetime, Webb!" I switched the sword… breadstick to my left hand. "En garde!" I focused all my concentration on the moves, and tried something I’d first seen done in the movies and had practiced a long time to get right. I tangled my breadstick with his, gave a sharp, sideways motion, and Clay’s weapon went flying across the room. He stared after it.

The waiter brought our entrees. "Beg pardon, sir. The management requests that you don’t play with your food."

I raised my napkin to my mouth to muffle my laughter. Clay flushed. "Sorry." The look he sent me promised retribution later.

"I told you you didn’t want to fence with me, baby," I said softly, so I wouldn’t be overheard. "I’m the best!"

His eyes grew hot, and it felt as if he were stripping off my clothes. "Yes, you are. I’ll know better for next time." Clay took a sip of his wine, then picked up his fork and began to eat.

He had ordered roasted wild spring salmon with asparagus. I was having grilled rack of lamb and roasted eggplant stuffed with lamb confit. It came with garlicky spinach, but I thought I would leave it, and none of Clay’s teasing could get me to change my mind.

"I don’t mind a little garlic, Clark."

"Well, fuck! I do! There’s enough in here to knock an elephant back on its ass! I want you conscious, not half-asphyxiated because I’ve had too much garlic!"

He laughed at me. His lips had firmed, he’d looked away, but then he was chuckling softly. I pretended to be annoyed, but this was one of the best dinners I’d ever had. I didn’t usually have the time to enjoy a leisurely meal in a nice restaurant. Too many people to kill, lives to fuck up.

I could get used to dining with Clayton Webb.

That goddammed little voice chose that moment to speak up. It had been silent for so long that I thought it had decided to go bother someone else. No such luck. //Not too smart, wise guy. He’s CIA.// It’s strictly sex! He’s the best lay I’ve ever had! I stomped on the voice with both feet.

There was still room for dessert, and I chose the warm roasted pear crepes in hazelnut sabayon. I should have gone with the sorbet trio, Clay’s selection. It was a lighter ending to the meal. Surreptitiously, I had to loosen my belt.

We both declined coffee, and when I requested the check, I thought I’d have to wrestle Clay for it, but he allowed me to pick it up this time.

And then we went ho… We went back to Clay’s townhouse.

****

It was early Monday morning. I was feeling decidedly mellow; I had fucked Clayton Webb twice more the night before. And just as the sky started to lighten, signifying that dawn was fast approaching, he had pushed my legs back to my chest and slid into me, his cheek against mine rough with early morning stubble. I slid my knees down to grip his waist, and for long minutes we just lay like that. When Clay finally began to move, it was gentle and unhurried and very, very thorough.

I would have liked to have breakfasted with him, but I couldn’t afford to let anyone get the idea that I was getting soft, losing my touch. And I didn’t want to be late for work.

He was just waking again as I finished tying my shoes. I leaned over and kissed his jaw. "I have to go, baby."

Clay blinked at me sleepily. He stretched until his joints popped, pushed aside the covers, and stood up, uncaring that he was naked. "Dinner tonight, Clark?"

I licked my lips, unable to drag my eyes away from his dick, which stirred, indicating his awareness of my gaze. "I’ll pick up some take out. What do you feel like?"

"Surprise me." Clay tugged on my ear and walked into the bathroom, closing the door. He didn’t lock it. I took a step toward the door.

Oh, fuck. I knew if I didn’t leave then, I wouldn’t leave at all. I left.

I stopped at a McDonald’s about halfway between Clay’s and DC, and ordered a couple of Sausage Egg McMuffins and two extra, extra large coffees to go.

The corridors of the DSD building were dim and empty, and my footsteps echoed hollowly in the stairwell as I went down to pick up the inhaler that Romero in R&D had promised would be ready for me.

He looked up when I pushed the door open. His right hand was out of sight beneath his work counter. I knew he had a gun stashed under there. He brought his hand out only after he had identified me. "Hey, Palmer. Don’t you ever sleep?"

"I could ask the same of you, Romero. Here’s your fee, Shylock."

His eyes lit up at the sight of the McMuffin and the coffee. Romero was solid, not fat, but his wife thought it might be a good idea if he lost some weight. The only time he had fast food now was when I paid him for going above and beyond. "You’re a good man, Clark Palmer."

"Yeah, well, don’t let it get around. How’re the wife and kid?" I stood patiently while he whipped out his wallet and prepared to display what looked like about a hundred photos, some of the woman he had married only the year before, but most of a newborn baby dressed in blue, his face scrunched with the indignity of a journey down the birth canal.

"Aida’s good, Palmer, and will you look at A.J.?"

"That’s one fuck-all name you gave your kid, Romero!"

"Anibale? Hey, it’s the name my folks gave me!" He was used to being kidded about his very old-country name. "And if he’s lucky, it’ll keep him from gettin’ drafted!" He gazed down at the photo. "Ain’t he the spittin’ image of his old man?"

Only if his old man had been in a Saturday Night Live skit about Coneheads, but if Romero wanted to brag about the newest edition to his family, I’d listen as long as it took. He had been with the DSD as long as I had. He worked hard, offered suggestions about the best way to make latex look more like human skin, dealt with that fucking super conductor, and wasn’t above listening to alternative advice. And he was one of the first people to call me a forensic artist.

Romero smiled proudly at the final picture of his son, then flipped his wallet shut and put it into his back pocket, now all business. "I know you’re short on time, Palmer, you always are." He rummaged in a cabinet while I finished my breakfast sandwich and tossed the wrapper away. "Here you go." With a flourish, he presented the inhaler to me.

I turned it over and over in my hands. "How does it work?"

He tried for an affronted look, then spoiled it by grinning. "Testin’ me, Palmer? This medication is supposed to be a bronchodilator, only, instead of openin’ the bronchial passages, it’ll shut ‘em down with a vengeance. He follows the usual directions, takes two puffs, and oh, my! looks like he’s havin’ an adverse reaction: bronchospasm. He’ll be tryin’ to suck in air, but it won’t do him no damn good. Bet he turns a nice shade of purple." He held out his hands, palm up, and shrugged. "Strangulation without havin’ to get up close and personal."

"Sweet." Although getting up close and personal never bothered me. "Thanks, Romero." I slipped it into my jacket pocket, took my coffee and turned to leave.

"Palmer. I’ll give Aida and A.J. your regards."

"Uh… yeah." I gave him a little salute and left his domain, feeling uncomfortable. I was so used to thinking of myself as a loner that it shocked me to realize there were actually people out there that I had some regard for. And one of them was CIA. I was not about to start obsessing over the man I had left earlier. I could take or leave Clayton Webb, and it was no big deal. I entered the stairwell and trotted up to the seventh floor.

I keyed in the access code to my private office and pressed the light switch by the door. Before I hung up my jacket, I removed the inhaler from my pocket and put it in the middle drawer of my desk.

As I sipped the last of my coffee I turned on my computer, logged on, and got down to work. There were a number of reports that needed to be completed. And of course there was the message I was waiting for. The computer system of the pharmacy Daren Curtin used had been programmed by our people to forward his request for a renewal to my computer here at the DSD. I’d make sure the correct inhaler was waiting for him, and then sit back and wait for the results. This delegating was proving to be pretty cushy.

I was getting up to speed on a situation that was ongoing in the Southwest. Bradenhurst was expanding, a new corporate center was being built, and some of the contractors were causing serious delays. I’d have to send someone out there to deal with them; they had no idea that fucking with Bradenhurst was fucking with the DSD. Abruptly, a bar on the bottom of the screen began flashing, indicating a dossier I had flagged was being updated, and I toggled into that window. I stared in disbelief at the message that scrolled across my monitor.

Daren Curtin had been busted for lewd and lascivious conduct in a public place? I shook my head as I scanned the police report skeptically. Matheson’s sobriquet for the free-lance agent bounced back into my mind. The demon spawn had apparently received a ticket for making out in a parked car in a well-known lover’s lane. With another man?

My jaw dropped, and I read that last bit over twice. None of the information that had been gathered on Curtin indicated he swung that way. And then I noticed a tiny marking in the corner of the report.

I checked my watch. My secretary would be at her desk. I flipped on the intercomm. "Ms. Parker, get Matheson in here." I picked up a pencil and tapped it rhythmically against my desk blotter.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, my office door opened, and Matheson walked in, carefully balancing two cups of coffee. "Ms. Parker asked me to bring you this, sir." He handed me a cup. "She seemed to feel I’d need one too." He stepped back to await my pleasure. "I have to speak with you about something, Mr. Palmer." His eyes flicked briefly to the monitor, and he licked his lips.

"It will have to wait." I took a sip of my coffee, nodded toward a chair, and he sat.

"Sir?" He raised his own cup to his lips, mirroring my action.

"It seems our friend, Daren Curtin, has been ticketed by the MPDC for misbehaving in public."

His glance went again to the monitor. "Oh, shit." My trainee’s voice was low, but not so low that I couldn’t hear him.

I bared my teeth at him. It was not a happy smile, not a friendly smile, really not a smile at all. Matheson turned pale. I indicated the report on my screen. "You want to explain this to me, Matheson?"

"That’s what I had to talk to you about, sir. I’m sorry."

"Sorry doesn’t cut it. I want an explanation."

He closed his eyes, his color now becoming ashen. "I fucked up. If you want me out of your department…"

"Matheson, don’t be in such a rush to get yourself thrown out of the DSD. I’ll do that if, and when I feel it’s necessary. Now for the last time, explain."

He tongue peeked out to moisten his lips again. "The… uh… someone gave me a bottle of Ginseng Black wine. After I returned to my apartment last night, I figured I’d give it a try. I’ve got a pretty good head for alcohol, Mr. Palmer. I know how much I can handle. I only had one glass."

"That’s ginseng mixed with dessert wine. Matheson, that particular wine is eighteen per cent alcohol."

"Yes, sir." He swallowed, keeping his eyes on mine. "I found that out when I checked the label this morning."

"Fucking hell!" I took a deep breath. "All right, go on."

"Well, I was watching television, a stupid show. Some kids making out in lover’s lane were busted by the cops. And all of a sudden I started thinking what would happen if demon spawn was rimming some guy in the front seat of his car, and a cop came up and tapped on the window. So I… er… I got into the MPDC data bank and… er…"

"You made it look as if Daren Curtin had been cited for public lewdness."

"Yes, sir."

"You used your home computer?"

"Yes, sir." A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over Matheson’s forehead. "I woke up this morning, thinking that maybe I had just dreamed doing something so stupid, but when I checked my computer and saw that I actually had, I knew I had to tell you. Ms. Parker told me she was just going to call me." I waited to see if he would fall apart, but then he pulled himself together. His expression became calm, controlled, and I felt a twinge of admiration. Of course, I wouldn’t tell him. "I’ve fucked up, sir," he repeated, "but I swear I’ll never do anything like that again, Mr. Palmer. I’ll even dump the wine down the sink when I get home!"

"You don’t have to go that far, Matheson." If Sweetcheeks had given him that bottle, it would be a shame to waste it. The rentboy knew wines, and it would be a good vintage. I wasn’t about to tell him to watch his intake the next time. This trainee seemed to learn from his mistakes; I hadn’t found that he’d made many. "Next time, use a computer here at the DSD. They’re all secured. All right, bring that chair around here, and pay close attention to how I deal with this."

He watched intently as my fingers flew over the keyboard, carefully overlaying each entry he had made until the small icon in the corner of the report vanished. I hit save and backed out of the MPDC’s system.

"Absolutely amazing, Mr. Palmer!"

Of course.

My computer chimed, and I became very still. It was show time. I spared Matheson a glance, to find he was motionless as well. I went into the pharmacy program, and Daren Curtin’s prescription history came up on the screen. I keyed in the information that it would be ready for him to pick up at lunchtime, and that since this was the last refill of Albuterol he had left, he would need to have his doctor renew the prescription. I rolled my chair away from my desk. "What size are you, Matheson? Thirty-eight average?"

"Yes, sir." He tried to conceal his confusion.

I went to the storage closet. Sperling used it for junk, but I believed in being prepared for all contingencies. Along a short wall was a rack that held various articles of clothing, and I found a lab coat in his size. "Here. You’re going to need this. When the little fucker comes in to pick up his prescription, he'll be dealing with a replacement pharmacist. Ms. Parker has your nametag and a pair of John Lennon glasses for you to wear as well. Keep your hair like that." The widow’s peak that had been so pronounced on Saturday was hidden by the way his hair was combed today.

"I thought…" The younger man swallowed heavily.

"You thought what, Matheson?"

He appeared to be weighing his words. "That I’d be… put on probation."

"The DSD doesn’t work that way." No, he would have been given missions where the likelihood of his survival would decrease exponentially with each one. "Your idea was a clever one. If you use it again, make sure you use a company computer." I opened my desk drawer and withdrew the inhaler, and gave it to him. "Now get over to the pharmacy on Connecticut Avenue. They’ll be expecting the regular pharmacist’s replacement."

"Yes, sir." Matheson paused at the door. "I won’t fuck up again, Mr. Palmer. I promise."

I gazed at the closed door. No, he wouldn’t fuck up again. My office line rang. "Palmer."

"Mr. Palmer, Mr. Wallace would like you in his office at your earliest convenience." The Boss’ secretary.

I just barely refrained from saying, "Yes, ma’am." She had that effect on me. Well, she had that effect on everyone. "I’m on my way."

****

I updated Mr. Wallace on the progress of the various assignments that had been left on my predecessor’s desk and gave him an outline for what I had planned for Interior Affairs.

"And that problem in Arizona?"

I smiled. "Do you really want to know my methods, sir?"

His eyes became hooded as he considered that, and then he shook his head. "Just make sure there’s nothing left." I sat back, crossed my feet at the ankles, and continued to smile. Mr. Wallace began to smile as well. It was almost as if he had shifted the balance of power toward me, just a trifle. He reached for his phone. "I have some important calls to make. That will be all, Mr. Palmer."

"Yes, sir." I stood and left his office.

****

"Mr. Palmer!" I went on the alert. Something had disturbed my usually unflappable secretary. "You have an urgent message! It was routed through Bradenhurst’s New England headquarters." That was what was bothering her. It was on the record that I worked for Bradenhurst. Anyone trying to reach me would have their phone call routed through the Boston office. She handed me the slip of paper with a phone number on it. The area code was for southeastern Massachusetts; it was a Fall River telephone number. I pulled out my cell phone and was punching in the digits as I started for my office. "I’ll hold your calls, sir."

"Yeah, thanks." I entered and shut the door, and listened to the ringing at the other end of the line. The words of an old song began to run through my mind. //Yesterday, in old Fall River, Mr. Andrew Borden died, and they got his daughter, Lizzie, on a charge of homicide…//

"Palmer residence." A woman’s voice.

My mouth was so dry I could spit cotton balls. "Steven Palmer, please. I’m returning his call." I took a deep breath. "This is his nephew."

****

I disconnected the call, shut down my computer, and grabbed my jacket out of the closet. Ms. Parker glanced at me, her expression blank. "There’s been a death in the family. Charter me a flight from Logan to Barnstable on Cape Cod. See a rental car is waiting in Barnstable. I’ll be away for a few days, Ms. Parker. Mr. Wallace is aware. Matheson has his assignment. If he has to reach me, he’s got my cell number. Anything else comes up, turf it to Bradicich." Deputy Director of Ordnance, his office was also on this floor. "If it’s the end of the world as we know it, call me. Otherwise… "

I’d done this too many times, although never before for this reason. All she said was, "Yes, sir."

I drove to Alexandria, feeling absurdly relieved that I wouldn’t see Clay before I left. At the same time I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to have dinner with him. I began to shake. What was I thinking? He was CIA, and I’d allowed him to get closer to me than anyone. I was seriously fucked.

No, I wasn’t. This trip to Fall River would give me the perfect excuse to put some space between us. I’d leave Clay a note explaining I’d be away, and telling him that when I came back I’d be moving out. After the funeral, I’d go over to Cape Cod for a few days and sort out this… whatever it was. I knew a little bed and breakfast that was about half a mile from the beach. When I got up there I’d call, and make sure they had a room available.

I threw my clothes into my duffle, grabbed my shaving kit from the bathroom, and wrote the note. Then tore it up and wrote it again. And again. After three tries I still wasn’t happy with it, but I had a shuttle I needed to catch, and I was shit out of time. I left the note where he would see it, propped on his pillow.

Leaving his house key next to the note had to give him a clue that I wouldn’t be staying with him when I returned.

I made sure the alarm was rearmed, pulled the door shut behind me, and trotted to my car.

****

Funeral homes all seem to smell the same: refrigerated air, the cloying scent of flowers at war with each other, and underlying it all, the telltale odor of death.

Only one of the four rooms was in use, and I approached it stiffly, hating that I had to be there. Rather than enter immediately, I read the small placard above the door.

Virginia Palmer. Viewing 2-5 and 7-9

Final prayers and closing of the casket 9:45 A.M.

Interment to follow at Fall River Memorial Park

It was a little after five. Whoever had been there must have already gone to dinner. The place appeared to be empty.

It was a very small room. A couple of plush, Queen Anne style chairs faced the coffin. Behind them were three rows of folding chairs. A small table stood nearby, conveniently holding a box of tissues. There was a blanket of flowers on the lower portion of the plain coffin, white football chrysanthemums, carnations, and sprigs of babies breath. Normally the ribbon would have said ‘Dearly Loved Wife’ or ‘Beloved Mother,’ but there was nothing; she was neither.

I stood looking down at the woman who had given me life, and nothing else. Although her hair was neatly coifed, it was streaked with grey. Face powder toned down the yellow tinge of a ruined liver. Deep grooves bracketed her mouth, but her lips were not in the thin line of discontent that I remembered. She actually looked… peaceful. Fucking bitch.

Someone came into the room behind me. I was reaching for my Glock before I could make myself relax.

"Did you know Virginia? I’m afraid she had so many men friends that I couldn’t keep track of them all. You’re the only one to show up. So far." I glared at the idiot who had almost gotten his head blown off, and then my gaze sharpened. He was my height, with prominent ears. His eyes were the same hazel as mine. He studied me, his expression puzzled. "You’re too young to be one of Virginia’s men. I’m sorry, do I know you?"

"Uncle Steve." I hadn’t realized it when I was little, but he had to have been only about sixteen when I was born.

His eyes widened. "Short Stuff?" He was the only one who had called me that.

"Not so short any more!" I thought for a moment he would pull me into a bear hug. When he didn’t, I was uncertain if I was disappointed or not. "Why are you burying her?"

"She’s still a Palmer. She never divorced your father."

I turned back to look at her. "Interesting."

"It’s good to see you, Short… Clark." Out of the corner of my eye I watched as he fidgeted with his wedding ring. "I wasn’t sure if you would come."

"I didn’t come for her."

"I… er… I tried to follow your career with… with Bradenhurst. It hasn’t been easy learning anything. We’re proud of you," he hastened to add.

"We?"

"I married around the time Virginia took off with you. I have children of my own now." His eyes veered away from mine.

Fuck. He was uncomfortable. This sounded like acquaintances trying to rediscover what had brought them together in the first place. Thomas Wolfe wasn’t fucking around when he said you can’t go home again.

"They’re… uh… they’re all in their twenties. I’m a grandfather, Clark." His laughter sounded forced. "Can you believe that?"

"When did you find out I worked for Bradenhurst?" I’d known about him. Even before I’d made the transfer to DC, I’d had the resources to trace my family, but once I had found him, had learned he was settled and happy, I’d been reluctant to burst in on his life. And… it wouldn’t have been safe.

"Oh, a couple of… five or six… Fifteen years ago, Clark."

"You never got in touch."

"I didn’t know how you would feel about seeing us again. After all, we let Virginia take you away."

"Is that what you told yourself so you could sleep nights?"

"Steven? Who is this?" The woman who joined us was tall and slender, with rich auburn hair. She wore a faux fur jacket and slim, black slacks. A trio of gold chains dangled from her ears. Her eyes examined me coolly.

"Darling, this is Clark, my nephew. You’ve heard me speak of him. Clark, this is your Aunt Lilly."

"Clark."

"Lilly." Uncle Steve didn’t look happy. I don’t know what he expected. I wasn’t a child to call his wife ‘aunt’. "I’m surprised to see anyone here. She…" I nodded toward the coffin. "… was a hard woman to live with, especially when she’d had a few."

"We were about to leave for dinner when one of our boys saw your car pull into the lot. I’m sure the rest of the family will want to meet you."

"I’m sure."

His eyes flickered toward mine, and then away. "Ah, here they are now." Relief was evident in his voice. He gestured toward the four men who entered the room. They stared at the three of us, curious as to who I was and what I was doing there.

I was starting to feel as if I was suffocating, was what I was doing.

He introduced his sons and their wives and girlfriends. What appeared to be a horde of rugrats descended on us, chasing in and out of the room. One of them latched onto my pants leg and tugged on it persistently, until I looked down at him.

"Who’re you?" Hazel eyes stared up at me.

"I’m your …" worst nightmare, kid. "… cousin. You want to let go of the suit?"

"No." Fortunately the kid’s mother grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

"Dad, the kids are getting restless." Like this was late-breaking news.

"Look, Clark. We were just about to get something to eat. Why don’t you come with us? There’s a family-style restaurant just down the road. We don’t even have to take the cars; we can walk."

I had to eat. "All right." I touched my uncle’s sleeve to let him know I wanted a word with him.

He waved his wife on ahead. "We’ll be right along, Lil."

I waited until they had left. "Tell me something, Steve. Why get in touch with me now?"

"Clark!" He seemed truly shocked. "Your mother passed away."

"So?"

Steve frowned. "You can’t be that cold!" Couldn’t I? He had no idea. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then shook his head and hurried after his family.

I paused to look at the figure lying in the coffin. "Y’know, old woman, I could have been having dinner with a really sexy guy," I told her, conveniently overlooking the fact that I’d been relieved to have an excuse to avoid Clay. "If this meal turns out as badly as I think it will, you’re going to be really thankful you’re already dead!"

****

The ambiance of the restaurant tried to suggest the nostalgia of an earlier, more innocent time, when girls tied their pony tails with gauzy scarves, wore poodle skirts and saddle shoes, and boys who wanted to look tough styled their hair in a D.A. It was dimly lit, and seemed even darker because of the paneling covering the walls. The management didn’t seem too disturbed by all the kids who were with us. It was Monday and not at all crowded, so they just seated us in a corner of the restaurant that put some distance between their other patrons and us.

I lingered behind, and spoke quietly to the hostess. "I get the check. Is that understood?" I smiled at her.

She swallowed. "Yes, sir. No problem."

"Good." I took a seat that afforded a good view of the entire place, and observed as the hostess spoke with one of her staff. He glanced my way uneasily, and then approached us.

"Hi, guys." The young man, with a nametag on his lapel that read ‘Bubbles,’ opened a pad. "My name is Ben, and I’ll be your waiter for the evening. Can I get you guys, and you, sir, something to drink?"

I ordered the one beer I would allow myself.

When he returned with beer, wine and soda, he took our dinner orders and vanished into the kitchen.

"Is that a good idea, Clark?" Uncle Steve asked, nodding toward the bottle of Michelob I tilted toward my lips.

"You mean because my old lady was an abusive, falling-down-drunk lush? Don’t worry about me; I know my limitations."

His mouth tightened, but before he could say anything, one of the women, maybe a wife, maybe a girlfriend, spoke up. "We understand you work for the Bradenhurst Corporation in Boston, Clark. What do you do there?"

"I troubleshoot for Bradenhurst."

"Sounds like a Clint Eastwood western," the youngest of Uncle Steve’s sons chimed in. "Like you’re the hired gun who rides into town to clean up the bad guys."

"Only you don’t shoot them, of course," Lilly murmured.

I parted my lips in a non-smile. "Of course."

Fortunately, the food was brought out just then, because conversation went downhill from there. "We were able to get Stevie enrolled in preschool… " "Amanda finally went through the night dry… " "Jeffy, don’t put that fry up your nose… "

****

When we returned to the funeral home, the director was setting up an open heart standing spray of delphiniums, mums and heather. Curious, I walked over to retrieve the card that was tucked into the greenery. ‘Deepest sympathy, W.’ was all it read. For a split second I had the strangest feeling in my chest, around the area of my heart.

And then it occurred to me that it was probably from Mr. Wallace. I wasn’t surprised. I had seen what he had done for that little shit, Shaw’s funeral. I wouldn't let myself be disappointed that it wasn't from Clay. After all, how would he know where I had gone, and for what purpose I had gone there? As good as Clayton Webb might be, the Central Intelligence Agency was nowhere near the caliber of the Defense Security Division.

I tucked the card into my pocket and moved one of the Queen Anne chairs so I would have an unobstructed view of the room, and sat down. There was no reason why I shouldn’t be comfortable while I kept an eye on things.

None of them came near me. I could hear the murmur of their voices as they ebbed and flowed, and I caught snippets of various conversations.

"… the Palmer ears… " "… cold-hearted son of a bitch… " "… I don’t blame Dad for not getting in touch… "

Time had slowed to an excruciating crawl. My toe was tapping impatiently on the floor as I was tempted to pull back the cuff of my sleeve to check the hour for the tenth time in the last five minutes. The only thing I had to occupy my mind were thoughts of the man I’d left in DC. What was he doing? Had he gotten something for dinner? Did he miss that I wasn’t there?

I stood abruptly, but before I could announce that this was bullshit, that the woman in the coffin hadn’t loved me, I hadn’t loved her, and there was no need for any of us to remain any longer, "Dad." The oldest of Uncle Steve’s sons approached him, holding a little girl who was falling asleep on his shoulder. "We’re going to get going. It’s getting late, and it’s a school night. Our baby-sitter has to get home. We’ll see you tomorrow morning." He kissed his mother’s cheek, touched his father’s shoulder. "My condolences, Clark. It was… um… nice meeting you."

Yeah.

One by one, the cousins said goodnight to their parents, and then it was just my uncle and his wife. Uncle Steve came over to me.

"I know viewing hours aren’t over yet, but I can see you’re ready to leave too, Clark. Do you have a place to stay?" I met his gaze, and he worried his lower lip. "We, Lilly and I, would like you to stay with us."

There was a Best Western on Airport Road in Fall River. "My secretary made reservations for me," I lied blandly.

"You should be with family," Uncle Steve insisted stubbornly. He saw from my expression that I wasn’t buying it. "You are family, Clark."

"And you realized that when?" I made an impatient sound. "Look, the past can’t be undone. I imagine you want to get out of here as much as I do. I’ll be back tomorrow in time for the closing of the casket."

"What about after the burial service?"

"What about it?"

"Jesus, you’re not making this easy for me, Clark."

I got up in his face. His eyes widened, and he backed hastily away from me. "Listen to me, Steve. One of her boyfriends kept her from beating me so badly I’d have been crippled for life. One of her boyfriends saw that I was sent away to school and got a decent education. If they want, I’ll call them family. But as far as I’m concerned all we, you and I," I mocked his earlier choice of wording, "share are a pair of ears and the same color eyes."

He turned on his heel and walked out, his stride reminiscent of a man who had a roll of quarters up his ass. But his wife remained there, scowling at me. "Was that necessary? Your uncle is a good man."

"Is he? I wouldn’t know that, would I? He’s known where I’ve been for the last fifteen years, and he never even sent a fucking Christmas card!" I was furious, in her face too, now, but she was made of sterner stuff than her husband, and stood toe to toe with me.

"And neither did you!" she snarled. "We’ve lived in the same neighborhood, in the same house since we were married! Why didn’t you get in touch with him?"

I hadn’t been in touch for the same reason I'd gotten in touch with none of my old lady's men who'd done me a kindness: because if anyone had found out what they, what he meant to me, my uncle’s life wouldn’t have been worth a handful of shit. I reined in my emotions, lassoed them, hog-tied them, and bound them in chains. "I guess I am just a cold-hearted son of a bitch." I grinned at her, and she flinched. "Good night, Lilly."

She stalked out. I was about to follow her into the hallway when my cell phone started to ring. I flipped it open. "Palmer."

"Where the fuck are you?"

Clay? I was so surprised to hear his voice that I answered him honestly. "Fall River. I left a note …"

"Oh, yes. That. What the fuck was that note supposed to represent? ‘Sorry about dinner. I’ll be in touch.’"

"I had to…"

"And why did you leave the key?"

"C’mon, Clay. You didn’t expect it to last forever." Did he? "I mean, c’mon, you’re CIA; I’m DSD…"

"Clark, fuck you and the horse you rode in on." He must have been calling from a base line, because he slammed the receiver down so hard I thought my eardrum would pop.

Oh fuck. How could a day that started so well, end on such a goddamned, fucking sour note?

I walked back to the coffin and stared down broodingly at the woman who lay in it. "You know something, old woman? I think we both would have been better off if you’d had an abortion."

****

By the time I found the Best Western and checked in it was almost ten that night. The motel was a rectangular-shaped, three story building; I was able to get a room on the first floor. Because it was the beginning of the week, and not quite the season, I had no trouble finding a parking spot. I parked the rental car about half way to my room, removed my duffle from the trunk, and walked to the door. The key card was in my left hand, keeping my right free to reach for my gun if it became necessary.

I let myself into the room. Once I was sure there were no unwelcome surprises waiting for me, I locked the door, threw the deadbolt, and jammed a chair under the doorknob. Only then did I examine my surroundings.

It was a smallish room, most of the space taken up by the king-size bed. The bathroom had a shower stall instead of a tub, and on the vanity was a coffee maker. There was a television sitting on a chest of drawers, but no mini fridge, not that it mattered; I was only going to be there overnight.

I turned down the bed, put my gun on the nightstand where it would be close at hand, and removed my shoes and socks, clenching my toes in the rug, trying to work out as much tension as I could. I laid out the clothes I would need for the morning, then took off my suit.

I went into the bathroom, and I hung my suit up. I intended to have a shower as hot as I could stand it, and the steam would remove any wrinkles my clothes had acquired during the day. I stripped off my shorts and undershirt, and stepped into the shower, letting the water beat down on me. In spite of myself, the memory of the last shower I had taken with Clay filled my mind. My cock swelled and hardened and filled my soapy hand. I stroked it the way I liked it, hard and fast, slow and teasing.

But goddamn it, no matter what I did, I couldn’t come.

****

I climbed naked into bed and finally fell asleep.

~~~~

I stood before the coffin, staring down at the remains of my mother. "Well, old woman. You’re finally out of my life!"

Her eyes flew open, and I jumped back. Like an automaton, she sat up and turned toward me. "Am I, you miserable excuse for a man? Did you really think I would give you the satisfaction of dying? You’ll never be free of me!"

"Want to bet?" I snarled. I pulled the Glock from under my arm and began to fire at her. Bullets tore off huge chunks of flesh, and blood splattered over the raised coffin lid, over the white flowers at the foot of the bronze box, but the bitch wouldn’t die.

Her features seemed to melt and morph, and I was shooting Clayton Webb. His hazel eyes were filled with reproach, and a thin trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth to drip onto his tie. I opened my hand, and the gun dropped to the floor. "No! Fuck, no!" What had I done? I backed away, suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible pain, and when I looked down I saw a great, gaping hole in my chest.

//Flub dub.// I glanced further down. //Flub dub.// On the floor, beside my shoe, my heart beat erratically. I gasped for breath and started to crumple, but before I hit the ground…

… I woke up and realized it was just a bad, fucking dream. It took a couple of minutes, but my breathing finally came back under control. I rolled onto my belly with a growl and pulled the covers up around my shoulders.

~~~~

I found myself driving down a road somewhere that I should have recognized because I had done a job there once, but I kept drawing a blank. The back road meandered through a sparsely populated area, past fallow land, to an area that was bordered by a marsh. Cattails grew along the edge of the bog, dying from the heat of late summer. The threat of a storm hung heavy in the air. I knew I had to get where I was going soon, or I’d be up shit creek.

The tires whined on the gravel, spinning faster and faster, and abruptly the powerful vehicle veered off the road, heading toward the swamp. No matter how desperately I spun the steering wheel, trying to alter my course, the car continued hurtling forward; the action was useless. If I didn’t get out of that car, right then, when it hit the water I’d be going down with it.

I scrabbled for the door handle, but there was none there. The car hit a tussock and became airborne. It sailed out into the center of the marsh and landed with a violent splash, rocked a couple of times, and then began to settle in the murky water. I banged wildly at the power switch for the windows, but the system was short-circuited by the water that poured under the hood. There was no crank for the window, and I was trapped in there.

Water was entering the car now, and as it rose, I was just able to make out the figure on the bank. Clayton Webb stood there, that lock of hair falling into his eyes, watching as I struggled to breathe. A sneer that I had never seen on his face before curled his lips. I tried to pry the window open, tearing fingernails in the process. The car sank deeper, the water rose higher, and my oxygen was running out. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me…

… awake, sitting up in bed. I ran my fingers through sweat-soaked hair, swore viciously, and beat the pillow. After tossing and turning for almost an hour, I finally fell back to sleep.

~~~~

I fucked up, and they got me. Clay stood there laughing while ‘they’ bound my hands. They hit me a couple of times, not much compared to what my old lady used to do to me, but enough to split my lip and bloody my nose; the blood ran down the back of my throat, and I started to choke on it. They shoved me onto a bunk that started to descend, shaking and groaning. I stared up in shock as they, and Clay leaned over, and the faces above me became more and more vague, pale circles with empty holes where eyes should have been. They watched me sink lower and lower, twenty-five feet, fifty feet, into some kind of shaft.

With a low rumble, the bunk shuddered to an unexpected halt. My breath was coming in fits, and I knew if I didn’t bring it under control soon, I’d use up all the oxygen in the enclosed space. The bunk began moving again, this time sliding sideways, into a crypt. The light dimmed, vanished, and a door slammed shut, sealing me in. I was left in the dark-- unable to see; gasping wretchedly-- unable to breathe; bound not only by physical restraints, but by unadulterated horror-- unable to move; until finally, with a violent, muscle-shattering wrench, I …

… shot up in bed, gasping for breath. Oh, fuck. That was the worst! I couldn’t stop shaking. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Jesus, this was going to be a long, fucking night.

~~~~

The next morning, I woke in a less than sterling mood. My mouth tasted like a herd of particularly vile creatures had taken up residence in it, and then died. A headache that started as merely nagging and quickly escalated to major proportions was beating out the Anvil Chorus behind my eyes. I cursed in a dull monotone as I searched my kit for a bottle of aspirin.

I swallowed a double dose of aspirin, washing them down with the coffee I brewed in the small pot that was in the bathroom. It was stale, nothing like the brew Clay had served me Sunday morning, but I needed the caffeine, and whether it was the coffee or the aspirin, within half an hour it kicked in, and I began to feel more human.

Before I even showered and dressed, I called Proven House in Chatham and reserved a room in the little bed and breakfast. As soon as the burial service was finished, I intended to drive back to Cape Cod and spend the next few days getting my head straight.

I knotted my tie, placed my Glock in its shoulder holster, and slid my arms into my jacket. The weapon’s bulge was satisfactorily concealed under my arm. I smoothed my hair, made sure I was leaving nothing behind, and left the motel.

A cool wind carried the scent of spring through the parking lot. Clouds speckled the sky. For a day that was going to start with a funeral, it was beautiful.

I stowed my duffle in the trunk and went to the lobby, where Best Western offered a Continental breakfast. I helped myself to more coffee, which this time was at least fresh, and had a pineapple danish.

It was almost 9:00 when I arrived at the funeral home. The parking lot was empty, but I didn’t really expect anyone else to show up there. The woman who I would see buried may have technically still been a Palmer, but she was the worst thing that ever happened to that family.

I wanted a drink. The funeral director offered me a cup of coffee. I took it and sat down in one of the Queen Anne chairs, crossing my legs and gazing off into space.

The outer door opened, and Uncle Steve walked into the small room, his wife beside him. I rose to my feet to greet them. "Good morning, Steve, Lilly. I'm surprised to see you here."

"You’re a Palmer, Clark. You may not want to accept it, but we’re as much a part of you as you are part of us."

"Still, it wasn't necessary for you to come."

"Did you think we’d let you bury Virginia without family support?"

Truthfully? Yes. He must have seen that in my face. His mouth took a sorrowful turn.

"Clark, can't we just…" Uncle Steve paused as the door opened again, and the rest of the family entered.

"If you say 'get along'," I snapped, "I'll hurt you." My headache was back in full force. "What are you all doing here?"

The oldest son, jesus, what was his name, Vince? Vince stood toe to toe with me. "We're doing this for Dad. Do you think we care, one way or the other? He doesn’t think you should have to be alone at a time like this."

"And I should be thankful?" I'd done harder things than bury a woman who wouldn't know how to raise a kid with a roadmap and personal advice from Dr. Spock. I made myself relax, but there must have been something in my eyes that warned him to back off.

"You really are a cold-hearted son of a bitch, aren't you, Clark Palmer?"

He said that like it was a bad thing. "Look, there's no reason for any of you to be here. Why don't you go mow the lawn or hang the screens or whatever it is you do in suburbia?"

"Clark." Uncle Steve motioned for his family to leave us alone for a moment. I watched him stonily. "You're my brother's only son. He failed you, and it looks like you think I did as well. I'm sorry for that."

I shook my head. "You don't get it. I never expected anyone to show up and save my ass." It was nice when someone had, but…

"I don't understand, Clark. If you aren't angry because we didn’t take you away from Virginia, then why are you angry?"

I gestured toward the body in the casket. "She was a drunk. She abused me, and cheated on my father. She had nothing good to say about any Palmer, living or dead. You've claimed her body from the morgue, and I assume you're paying for this funeral. Are you burying her in the Palmer plot in the Memorial Park?"

He nodded dumbly, stunned by my attack. I wasn't going to ask why he did that for her, a woman related to him only by marriage, and yet me, his blood and kin, he ignored for fifteen years.

And then I heard the words coming out of my mouth, ending with, "Why, Steve?"

He looked away. "I loved you, Clark. You were the sharpest little kid. You used to love that story I’d tell you about the iron dog, do you remember? No, of course you wouldn’t remember, you were so small then. Virginia told us she had a job offer out in California. I thought she was getting her act together. And she promised she’d bring you back for a visit."

"And you believed her."

"I… Yes. Did she even go to California?" I shook my head, and he sighed. "I’m sorry. When I finally learned you were working in Boston, I wanted to go see you, but such a long time had passed, Clark, and you were very successful. I didn’t want you to think I was contacting you because I wanted something from you. As for the funeral, I’m doing this because it’s the least I can do for my only nephew. I love you."

This time he did hug me, and for one brief second I let him. Then the funeral director came in to begin the service, and I stepped back. The rest of the family followed him into the small room.

This didn't mean we were going to have a warm, meaningful relationship. When I left Fall River, they wouldn't see me again. Ever.

It would be safer all around.

****

Proven House was a nice bed and breakfast in the historic town of Chatham. A remarkable example of Greek Revival, it had been built during the early decades of the 1800s, a time when whaling was a flourishing business on Cape Cod. It had never left the hands of the original owners and had never needed to be restored because it had always been kept in excellent condition. Two stories, with a gabled roof and fireplaces, one in each of the five bedrooms on the second floor, it offered peace and quiet and individual baths as well as excellent meals.

I could have taken rooms at any of the large hotels on the Cape, but I wanted a place that no one would think Clark Palmer would be caught dead in. Proven House was perfect. I pulled into the small parking lot at the rear of the quaint white building, retrieved my duffle, and entered through the French doors.

At the end of the hall was a Cuban mahogany Carlton House desk. I let out a silent whistle. I’d seen one of those, offered as an investment piece, valued at almost twenty-eight thousand dollars. The security in this place was below even CIA standards. If I ever needed the dough, I’d have no trouble breaking and entering.

The woman behind the desk looked up, smiled politely, and inquired, "May I help you?"

I returned her smile and dropped my duffle at my feet. "You’re holding a reservation for me. Joseph Wells."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Wells. I took your call earlier. I’m Mary Proven. My husband, Sam, and I are the proprietors of Proven House." She slid a registration card toward me. "If you’d be so kind as to fill this out?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Proven." I carefully printed the information that belonged to Joseph Wells, the identity that I used when I was away from the DSD for personal reasons, rather than professional. Then I handed her the credit card and waited while she punched in the string of numbers and the expiration date.

"Have you been in Chatham before, Mr. Wells? Would you care for any brochures on the local activities?"

"No, I haven’t, and I’d like that very much. Thank you." I’d been in Chatham a couple of times, I was a Massachusetts boy after all, but I felt it always paid to cover my tracks. "It seems very nice in Chatham this time of year."

"Yes, it is." She returned my credit card and presented me with a handful of the colorful pamphlets. "We’ve given you the St. Andrew, Mr. Wells, although you could really have your choice of rooms. We only have a young couple with us right now, the Hirsts. They’re honeymooning in the King George Suite, so it isn’t too likely that you’ll be seeing them."

"Really?" Interesting. It was still a couple of days until May, the start of the season. Didn’t most people get married in June? The hairs on the back of my neck tightened. It was nice to know I’d have the place basically to myself, but I’d stay frosty, and I’d keep an eye out for the newlyweds. Just in case.

"Were you aware that each of our rooms is named for a whaling ship?"

I was aware. A great-granddaddy of mine had captained a whaling ship, the Lynx. I murmured something noncommittal.

"Oh, yes. The St. Andrew was lost in 1861, with all hands. So was the King George, in 1822." That was… bizarre. Smoothly she changed the subject. "Will you be staying with us long, Mr. Wells?"

"At least a few days, Mrs. Proven; Friday at the latest." It shouldn’t take me longer than that to get that CIA spook out of my head.

"Excellent, sir. We’re delighted to have you with us. These stairs will take you to the second floor. Your room is at the back of the house. Dinner is at 7:30, and breakfast is from 7 until 10 in the morning."

"Thank you." I gave her a brief nod and took the key she extended to me, then picked up my duffle and went toward stairs, carefully observing the logistics of the place. "Oh, are these stairs the only way to get to the second floor?"

"Why, no. There are what used to be the servants’ stairs." I kept my expression politely interested, but I was not happy to hear that. "They’re only used by our cleaning staff, I assure you, and your privacy will not be disturbed in any way."

"I appreciate that, thank you." I turned and went up to my room. Fuck. I’d have to check this place out.

****

The St. Andrew Room was amazing. Aside from the fireplace and its own bathroom, there was a small alcove that acted as a closet. Lamps on either side of the king-sized bed provided light, and where a fixture might normally hang from the ceiling, there was a plaster cast medallion. The comforter and bed linens were a pale ivory, and scattered about the room were live plants, adding a splash of green.

Jesus. It looked like someone had died and made Martha Stewart queen.

Well, it was just for a few days. I could live with it. I unpacked and decided a walk on the beach would be the best thing for me at that moment. I knew that Forest Beach was just a half mile away. I changed into casual clothing and pulled a fisherman knit sweater over my head. The breeze from the ocean was cool enough to warrant it. I stashed my clutch piece, a Beretta Jetfire that I’d done some modifications on, in my pocket and left my Glock in the nightstand.

Before I left, I took a stick of gum from a pack I kept in a pocket in my duffle and chewed it thoroughly. When all the taste was gone, I left my room, locked the door behind me, and hung a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob. Then I stuck a very thin ribbon of the gum from the lower panel of the door to the doorframe. It was too fine to be readily seen, but it gave me an edge. If anyone entered my room while I was gone, I would know it. I wrapped the rest of the wad of gum in the wrapper; I'd throw it away later.

I went back down the stairs and nosed around. The first floor consisted of a dining room with five tables, each set with place mats and place settings, crystal and silverware, and with a centerpiece of fresh flowers. Across the hall was a sitting room that had couches, loveseats, and chairs strategically arranged before a large screen TV. Bookcases lined one wall, local and out of town newspapers were on a coffee table, and in a corner was a writing desk stocked with paper and pens. The kitchen was equipped with stainless steel appliances. A youngish man was standing before the stove, humming something that sounded familiar while he stirred a pot. Then he began to sing, "If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air…" He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

"Hi, there. I’m Sam Proven. You must be Mr. Wells." He extended his hand, and I accepted it. "Were you looking for a snack? I’m sorry, I can’t offer you anything between meals. There’s a little grocery just down the corner, though."

"That’s okay. I can wait. I was just familiarizing myself with your… um… lovely inn."

"It’s a honey, isn’t it? Been in my family since 1826. Did Mary tell you all the rooms are named for whaling ships that were lost with all hands?"

"She mentioned the St. Andrew and the King George."

"We also have the Mary, the Harpooner, and the Lively. They’re just doubles, though. All lost with the entire crew. The story handed down in the family is that after the grandfather who captained the King George was lost, his wife and children immigrated to America. They wound up in Cape Cod, and she had this place built."

"And she named the bedrooms after doomed ships?"

"Oh, no! That was my idea. We don’t really think of them as doomed. More like just ill-fated, star-crossed, if you will. When Mary and I took over, we decided it would be romantic to do that. She did some research, and there you have it!" He smiled happily and went back to stirring whatever was in the pot.

"Uh… right. Well, I’ll see you later." I left him there and resumed exploring the surroundings. Fortunately, there were no stairs on the outside of the bed and breakfast; I’d just have the inside stairs to worry about. The nearest neighboring buildings were about ten yards on either side, and the back looked on the parking lot. I headed for the beach.

With the sun beating down on it, the sand above the water line was a pristine white, but where the water washed over it, it darkened to almost charcoal grey. I took off my running shoes and stuffed my socks into them, then tied the laces together and slung them over my shoulder. Once my pants cuffs were rolled up out of the way of the water, I began to walk along the shore. The beach was deserted, but I kept a weather eye out for interlopers.

I walked for about forty-five minutes, spending most of that time trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing in pushing Clayton Webb out of my life. He'd gotten too freaking close. Granted, he was good in bed, more than good, and yeah, he was an interesting dinner companion, but I wasn’t going to let him get any closer.

I stood there watching as the sun started its slow descent, then dropped my gaze to the gun-metal grey of the ocean. The tiny waves that had been lapping at my toes had grown higher, and spumes of foam soaked my rolled up cuffs. It was time to head back to Proven House.

The sand was cool and oozed between my toes, and the journey that had taken three quarters of an hour outward bound, only took thirty minutes on the return trip.

I was doing one of my periodic visual sweeps of the beach when I felt a sudden sharp pain in my foot. I had stepped onto a broken shell that the retreating tide had exposed. "Aw, fuck!" I stared as blood pooled on the sand beneath the ball of my foot and my big toe. When I angled it around to examine the damage, I saw that there were two cuts, although the one on my toe was shallower, and sand had made its way into them both. I stuck my foot back in the water to rinse it off. "Shit!" I winced as the salt stung the open wounds.

The town fathers of Chatham had conveniently placed benches so sunsets could be observed in comfort. I sat myself down on one and wrapped a sock around my injured foot, trying to stem the flow of blood. Proven House wasn’t more than a ten-minute walk from that point. I hauled myself up to my feet and hobbled my way back, putting most of my weight on my heel.

No one was at the front desk when I entered the bed and breakfast, and I was able to get to the second floor without being questioned about my stupidity. I took the key from my pocket, then paused at my door, squatting down to check the string of chewing gum I had left there. It was awkward, balancing on the ball of my left foot and the heel of my right. Gently, I stretched my fingers toward the fine ribbon of gum. It was broken.

Adrenalin began to surge through my body, and my foot was forgotten. I straightened, licked my lips, and switched the key to my left hand. I reached for my gun, very quietly unlocking the door. Drawing in a deep breath to center myself, I flung the door open to slam noisily against the wall and threw myself into the room, tucking and rolling and coming up on my knee, the Beretta Jetfire in my right hand, my left cupping the grip.

The man on my bed bolted upright into a crouch, his upper body mimicking the position mine was in. He was pointing a Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum at my head. I snarled, "Jesus, Webb, who do you think you are, fucking Dirty Harry?" and tossed the sub-compact aside.

He glared back at me and slid the revolver into the holster under his left arm. "Do you have any idea how close I came to blowing your fucking head off?"

I rose and turned to remove the key from the door, and shut it. "That’ll be the fucking day!" I was starting to cool down. "What are you doing here, anyway? How …" I bit back the question.

He arched an eyebrow, apparently knowing what I was about to ask him. "Do you really expect me to tell you how I knew you were staying on Cape Cod, under the name of Joseph Wells?"

I’d been using an alias that was known only to a very select few in the DSD. I wasn’t stupid enough to think Michael Shaw was the only mole in the DSD, but it hadn’t been my responsibility to deal with it. Now, as Deputy Director of Interior Affairs, it was. I’d look into it when I got home. I limped toward him, and he frowned.

"What did you do to your foot, Clark?"

"It’s nothing, just a scratch."

"Yes? Well, that ‘scratch’ is leaving bloody footprints all over the rug."

"Fuck!" The wounds had almost stopped bleeding, and now the strenuous movement had caused them to start again.

"Get in the bathroom, and let me take a look at that. And don’t argue with me, or I’ll…"

"Yeah? You’ll do what, Clay?" Whatever it was that we had had, we didn’t have it any more; I shouldn’t be baiting him.

He stood up and walked toward me, his eyes glittering. I watched him warily, uncertain of what he was going to do. His hand reached for me, his palm settling on my shoulder, and for a second his fingers seemed to fondle my upper arm. And then he spun me around and shoved me toward the bathroom. "Move it, tough guy."

I could have taken him. After all, I had about five inches and maybe twenty pounds on him. But for some reason, probably because he was trying to help, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, I let him herd me into the bathroom. I put the lid of the commode down and sat, then rested my right foot over my knee.

"Untie that sock, Clark." Clay removed his jacket and hung it behind the door. He turned on the hot water, unfastened his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. Hair slightly darker than the hair on his head dusted his forearms, and my mouth went dry.

"You… uh… you mind telling me what you are doing here, Clay?" I asked as I licked my lips, trying for a little distraction.

A wicker basket placed at the end of the vanity held the washcloths. They were arranged around the toiletries Proven House offered its guests, little bottles of body lotion, shampoo, conditioner. Clay selected a washcloth and saturated it. The look he gave me was not friendly. Well, fuck. What was he pissed about? I didn't ask him to come up here after me. He took my foot in his hand and began to clean the sand out of the wounds. "This doesn’t look good, Clark. I think you might need stitches. Maybe we should get you to an emergency room." He hadn’t answered my question.

"No. It isn’t necessary. It’s not that bad." I’d had more than enough of hospitals in the past week. "Give me that; you’re too gentle." I took the washcloth from him and scrubbed harder, causing the wounds to bleed more freely. Clay winced. "The blood will get out any sand that’s left, and just to be on the safe side, fill the tub; I’ll soak the rest of it out." I looked up to find Clay staring at his hands, which had my blood on them. "Fuck! Listen, Webb, you don’t have to worry, I’m clean…"

"You’re an asshole, you know that, Palmer! Do you think I’m worried about that?"

"Why not? I would be." If anyone else had called me an asshole, I’d be tearing his head off and pissing down his neck. I didn’t ask myself why I wasn't separating Webb's head from his shoulders; I was worried about my foot.

He scowled and turned on the bath taps. "I have a copy of your last physical," he muttered. My mouth dropped open, and he swore and crossed to where I was still sitting. He wound his fingers in my sweater and hauled me to my feet, then fitted his lips on mine.

It had been thirty-four hours… sixteen minutes… some odd seconds… since the last time we had done this. His mouth was ravenous, and he held my head, refusing to allow me to do anything more than hold still for his kisses. I was panting, and the puffs of breath entered his mouth. I slid my hands down between us to shape his cock, and I could feel how hard he was. I reached around to his ass, dug my fingers into the firm muscles, and rubbed myself against him, letting him feel how hard I was.

Clay groaned and stepped back, breaking my hold on him. "Not the best time!" His fingers rubbed under my chin and pushed my mouth closed. "Soak your foot, Clark." I swallowed and turned off the water, then straddled the side of the tub. "Do you have any bandages?"

"There’s some first aid stuff in my shaving kit." I wasn't sure how I felt about this turn of events. I leaned sideways and probed the wounds, which were still oozing a little blood. They felt as if all the sand had been removed. "Hand me a towel, would you?" I pulled the plug and turned to balance on the edge of the tub. "Want to tell me now what you’re doing here?"

"Why did you run, Clark?"

"What?" If that wasn’t like a spook, answering a question with a question.

His eyes were brooding. "What we have between us is too good to be tossed aside on a whim."

"What are you talking about?" I hedged. "I didn’t run anywhere. I had to go to a funeral."

"Your mother." He nodded. "I’m sorry."

I didn't ask how he knew that. If he knew I used another identity when I went out of town, then his source would have told him the reason why I had left. I ducked my head, ostensibly to examine the cuts more closely. "No need to be. The old bat’s liver finally gave up the ghost." I stood up and began to look through the kit. "Shit. I know I had iodine in here!"

"This?" He displayed the bottle with the tiny skull and crossbones on the label, but held it out of reach. "Sit down, Clark." I sat down.

Clay knelt before me and unscrewed the top of the bottle. He was careful touching the applicator to the two cuts, but I still had to bite down hard on my lip. Fuck, that stung!

He recapped the bottle and set it on the vanity. "If you won't go for stitches…" He frowned at my expression. "All right, butterfly bandages might work just as well. Do you have any?"

"Clay..." I sighed as I reached for the kit. Like the Boy Scouts, I was prepared for any contingency; I wouldn't have made it so far in the DSD otherwise. I handed him the small packet of bandages.

"You know, Clark… hold the edges together, please." He took a bandage from its wrapper and carefully smoothed it over the lower of the two cuts. "… if you carried a sewing kit, I could stitch you up myself."

"What do you think, I'm fucking Rambo?" I complained. His head was down, and I couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were shaking. "Goddamn it, are you teasing me again?" I tipped his chin up, and his eyes were warm with laughter. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

I leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss that was as hungry as his had been. When I pulled back, they were lush and swollen. He drew in a breath and sat back on his heels, reaching for the next bandage. I was breathing heavily, and I knew he couldn't avoid seeing how hard my cock was. Well, fuck, it was right under his nose.

He ran his fingers over the bulge in my trousers and grinned up at me under his lashes, then went back to placing the bandages. The touch of his fingers over the arch of my foot caused it to twitch involuntarily, and his grin widened. I kept my hands fisted, wanting nothing so much as to bury them in his hair and drag his mouth back to mine. I closed my eyes.

"I’m done," he said softly as he rose to his feet. I surged up and brushed against him to find his cock was as hard as mine. I got my arms around him and took his lips, walking him backwards into the bedroom. "Your foot…"

"Fuck my foot!" I started to pull my arms out of my sweater, reluctant to release his mouth.

"I’d rather fuck your ass, Clark."

"Think you’re so smart, don’t you, Webb. Well, I’ll… Oh, fuck!" I tore myself away from him and smacked the wall. "Of all the motherfucking, cocksucking…"

"Clark!" Clay put his hands on my shoulders. His hands were warm. "What’s wrong?"

I scrubbed my face with my hands. "No supplies."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me, Webb. I didn’t bring anything with me. No condoms, no lube…" I was so hard I could hammer nails with my dick, and I didn’t even have a rubber in my wallet. I liked to pride myself on my preparedness. Fuck. I was tempted to kick something, but without shoes on, I’d probably only succeed in breaking a toe.

"So, you didn’t plan on fucking anyone while you were away." He was looking pleased.

The look I gave him clearly asked if he was out of his mind. "Clay, I was going to bury my old lady! Contrary to popular belief, I do not get turned on by funerals!"

"Well, if I remember correctly, there’s some lotion in the bathroom. And…" He removed his wallet from his pocket, opened it, and exhibited the foil packet. I reached for it. "Uh, uh, uh, Clark. I brought it; I wear it!" He put his wallet away and raised his hand to curl his fingers over my ear. I shivered from the sensation. "We can go out to a drugstore after dinner and buy more, if you’d like."

If I’d like? I began to smile as I pulled my sweater up over my head and dropped my hands to my belt buckle. "We’ve got an hour and a half until dinner. Get naked, Clay."

His eyes were bright. He worked the knot out of his tie, then let it dangle as he unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, tantalizingly. He ran his tongue over his lips.

I growled and reached for him.

****

We entered the dining room at 7:30 on the dot. Mrs. Proven glanced up at us from her table, smiled and rose. "Gentlemen. Mr. Reed, I’m so pleased you were able to find your friend. I’ll just let Sam know you’re ready for your first course. If you’ll take this table?"

Clay returned her smile and walked to the table in the corner. He was about to sit down, when I stopped him. "Would you mind if I sat there?"

"Cl… Joe, you’re getting paranoid in your old age." Didn’t mean they weren’t out to get me. But he let me sit facing the rest of the room.

"You have a place to stay tonight … what name are you using this trip?" I asked in an undertone.

"You can call me Charles." That smile was directed right at me. "And I’m right down the hall from you, in the Harpooner. I’ll be staying… How long will you be here?"

"Until Friday." Before I’d left, Mr. Wallace had given me permission to take as long as I felt necessary to deal with the emotional backlash of burying a parent, as long as I was back at my desk by Friday.

"I’ll be staying until Friday … Joe."

"Chuck." If I were lucky, he wouldn’t be spending any more time in that room than it took to rumple the sheets so it would look like the bed had been slept in. Although it might be interesting to use his room for a change of scenery. "Let’s dig in, shall we? I want to get to the pharmacy before it closes."

"There’s a CVS just down the road." Our hostess was placing the salad plates in front of us. "They stay open until 10 on weekdays. I hope there’s nothing wrong?"

Clay regarded her blandly. "Not a thing." He offered nothing further, and I felt a twinge of admiration and wondered if he’d be interested in working for the DSD. The CIA didn’t deserve him; he certainly had more brains than most of the assholes I’d come into contact with there.

I speared a leaf of arugula. "Ever think of switching agencies?"

His expression was thoughtful. "Leave my… company?"

"They don’t appreciate you… there. I could put a word in with my boss. Maybe even get you a position as my partner? I’d like to have you… as my partner." My voice was heavy with innuendo. He touched his tongue to his upper lip; he knew where I'd like to have him.

"Yes?" His gaze dropped to his plate, and he seemed to contemplate a cherry tomato that he chased around with his fork. He managed to capture it and raised it to his mouth, sliding it past his lips. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth, and he fucking knew it! His smile was wicked. "As tempting as a position under you… I assume it would be under you, wouldn’t it… Joe? As tempting as that is, I think I’ll have to decline. I like the structure… State… has to offer."

"If you ever change your mind, baby, just let me know. You’d make Director in nothing flat, believe me!"

We spent the rest of the meal discussing plans for the next two days. But as soon as we’d finished eating, we visited the CVS the proprietress of Proven House had told us about and stocked up on condoms. And lube.

****

That was the most relaxing time after a funeral that I had ever spent. On Wednesday, we drove to Plymouth Harbor to go whale watching and feel the sun and wind on our faces. On Thursday, we drove to Falmouth to fish for striped bass in the tide rips, and since we had no use for the fish, we turned our catch over to the first mate.

And on Friday, we flew back into DC. I picked up my car in the long-term parking lot and drove us back to Clay’s townhouse.

"I expect that dinner you promised me, Clark." He smiled.

"When…?" And I recalled when I had promised him dinner: Monday morning, before I’d left for work, before I’d learned that my old lady had bit the big one, before I … started having second thoughts about this thing between Webb and me, whatever the fuck this thing was.

Clay gave me a little salute, and I watched the bunch and flow of his trousers over his ass as he strode up the walk to his front door and let himself in. He did have a fine ass. I put the car in gear and went to work.

I parked in the spot I’d been given with my promotion to deputy director and sauntered into the inconspicuous building, then walked up the empty stairwell to the seventh floor.

Ms. Parker looked up from her computer monitor. "Mr. Palmer. It’s good to have you back, sir." She said nothing about the fact that I was limping. It was only partly because my foot was still healing. The night before Clayton Webb had used the last of our condoms and fucked me through the mattress. I enjoyed the physical reminder of what we had done. "I have a number of messages for you, sir."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker." I thumbed through the slips of paper. Most of them were routine. The last one caught my eye. I smiled at my secretary, and she permitted herself a thin smile in return. "Get Matheson. I’ll want to see him immediately."

According to the message, on Wednesday evening, Daren Curtin had ceased to occupy space on this planet. He had died struggling for his last breath.

Matheson had done a good job. The Boss had chosen a decent replacement for me.

I took the coffee Ms. Parker handed me, went into my office and closed the door.

~End~