Call After Midnight (14 page)

Potter glanced down at the yellow blob on his sleeve. Another day, another stain. He looked around for a napkin, then gave up and reached for a scrap of memo paper. It was a note he'd scrawled to himself earlier in the week:
“Mail alimony checks!”
Dammit, late again. If he got over to the post office right now, the checks might arrive by Tuesday….

He tossed the memo at the trash can. It missed. With a groan he forced himself out of his chair. He was reaching down for the scrap of paper when the door opened. “Yeah?” he asked. Then he fell silent.

Puzzled, Tarasoff turned and looked at the man standing in the doorway. It was Jonathan Van Dam.

Potter cleared his throat. “Mr. Van Dam. I didn't know you were in London. Is there new business?”

“No. Actually it's old business.” Van Dam settled into Potter's chair and carelessly brushed aside the mound of crumpled waxed paper and Styrofoam cups before sliding his briefcase on the desk. “An odd bit of information
has come to my attention, and I really can't account for it. Perhaps you can shed some light.”

“Uh—information?”

“Yes. I've had a tap on Sarah Fontaine's phone. To my surprise I learned she had a call from her husband a few days ago. Rather amazing feat, don't you think? Or has long-distance service improved that much?”

Potter and Tarasoff looked at each other. “Mr. Van Dam,” said Potter, “I can explain….”

“Yes,” said Van Dam. He wasn't smiling. “I think you should.”

* * *

O
N THE HIGH
cliffs above Margate, Nick and Sarah stood with their faces against the wind. Gulls dove from the teal-blue sky, and their cries pierced the air like a hundred voices raised in mourning. The sun was shining brightly, and the sea sparkled like broken glass. Even Sarah was stirring to life under the healing touch.

Since starting out from London that morning, she'd shed her sweater and scarf. Now, dressed in a white cotton shirt and the old gray skirt, she paused in the sunshine and drank in its warmth. She was alive. For the past two weeks, she'd somehow forgotten that fact. She'd wanted to bury herself along with Geoffrey—or who she'd thought was Geoffrey. Only now, as she felt the salt wind in her face, did life seem to creep back into her body. She'd survived Geoffrey's death; now she would survive his resurrection. To think how deeply she'd loved him! Now she could barely recall the feeling. All she had left were images, freeze-frame memories of a man she'd hardly known.

“Sarah?” Nick touched her arm and nodded toward the path. His hair was wild and windblown, his face ruddy in the sunshine. In his faded shirt and trousers, he looked
more like a fisherman than a bureaucrat. “How much farther?” he asked.

“Not far. It's at the top of the hill.”

As they walked up the path to Whitstable Lane, she found herself watching him. He strode easily, without effort, as though he'd spent all his life scaling cliffs. Once again, she wondered about Nick O'Hara. Whatever his reasons for being here, she knew this much: she trusted him. There was no point questioning his motives. He was a friend; that was all that mattered.

Nick turned and squinted down the path. The town of Margate was nestled below at the foot of the cliff. There was no sign of pursuit. They were alone.

“I wonder why they're not following us,” said Nick.

“Maybe they're tired.”

“Well, let's keep moving. At least we've got some breathing room now.”

They turned and continued walking.

“You don't like the CIA, do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They're a different breed. I don't trust them. And I especially don't trust Roy Potter.”

“What did Mr. Potter do to you?”

“To me? Nothing. Except maybe get me shipped back to Washington.”

“Is Washington that bad?”

“It's not the place foreign service careers are made.”

“Where are they made?”

“Hot spots. Africa. South America.”

“Yet you were in London.”

“London wasn't my first choice. They offered me Cameroon, but I had to turn it down.”

“Why?”

“Lauren. My ex-wife.”

“Oh.” So that was her name, Lauren. Sarah wondered what had gone wrong between them. Had it been like so many other failed marriages, in which there was a gradual drifting apart? Boredom? She couldn't imagine ever being bored of Nick. He was a man of many layers, each one more complex than the last, each waiting to be discovered. Could a woman ever really know him?

They walked in silence, past the row of mailboxes and around the curve leading to Whitstable Lane. The cottage came into view, a small white house behind a low picket fence. The old groundskeeper was nowhere in sight.

“This is the house,” she said.

“Then let's find out who's home,” said Nick. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer. The door was locked. “Sounds like it's empty,” he said. “All the better.”

“Nick?” she called, following him around to the back door. She found him jiggling the knob. It was unlocked.

Slowly the door swung open. The shaft of daylight swept across a polished stone floor. At their feet lay a single shattered china plate. Nothing else appeared out of place. The kitchen drawers were closed. Copper pots hung in rows on an overhead rack. On the windowsill sat two wilted plants. Except for the soft drip of a leaky faucet, the house was eerily silent.

Sarah jumped when Nick touched her arm. “Wait here,” he whispered. His footsteps crunched loudly on the broken china as he walked through the kitchen and disappeared into the next room. As she waited for him, her eyes slowly explored the strange surroundings. She was standing in the very heart and soul of the house. Here was where Eve had cooked, where she and Geoffrey had laughed and eaten together.
Even now, the room seemed to resonate with their presence. Sarah didn't belong here. She was the intruder.

“Sarah?” Nick was calling from the doorway. “Come take a look.”

She followed him into a sitting room. Leather-bound books lined the wall shelves; china figurines sat in a row on the mantelpiece. In the fireplace were the ashes from Eve's last fire. Only a desk had been disturbed. Its drawers had been pulled out and dumped. A pile of correspondence—mostly bills and advertisements—had been ripped open and tossed on the floor.

“Robbery wasn't the motive,” he said, nodding at an obviously antique pewter goblet on the mantelpiece. “I think someone was after information. An address book, maybe. Or a phone number.”

She gazed around the room. It would have been a cozy place, with the flames crackling and the lights burning low. She could picture Eve sitting quietly in the leather chair, smoke trailing from her cigarette. Would there be music? Yes, of course, Mozart and Chopin. There were the records, stacked by an old phonograph. The ashtray was still full of butts. Fear must have made her light one cigarette after another. Here, alone in the shadows, Eve must have jumped every time the windows rattled or the floor creaked.

A few feet away, Sarah saw an open door. She felt herself drawn toward it by an inexplicable and painful fascination. She knew what lay beyond, yet she couldn't stop herself from going in.

It was the bedroom. With gathering tears she stood at the foot of the double bed and looked at the flowered coverlet. This was another woman's bed. In her mind she saw Geoffrey lying here, with his arms around Eve. The vision filled her with such pain she could barely refrain from
screaming. How many nights had he slept here? How many times had they made love? As he lay in this bed, hadn't he ever missed Sarah, just a little?

These were questions only he could answer. She had to find him. She had to know, or she'd never be free.

In tears she bolted from the room. A moment later she was standing alone near the edge of the cliff, staring out to sea. She scarcely heard Nick's footsteps as he walked up behind her.

But she did feel his hands settle gently on her shoulders. He said nothing; he merely stood there, a warm, solid presence. It was precisely what she needed from him: the silence. And the touch. As the waves churned below, she closed her eyes and felt his breath in her hair.

She'd been married to Geoffrey and she'd never really known him. Here was Nick, a man she'd met just two weeks ago. Already their lives had mingled inextricably. And now she desperately wanted him to pull her closer, to gather her into his arms.

How did things get so crazy? she wondered. Was it just the loneliness? The grief? She wanted to turn to him, to be held by him, but she knew it was more than simple desire. It was also need. She was afraid and vulnerable, and Nick was the only safe anchor in her world. It was the wrong reason to fall in love.

Pulling away, she turned and faced him. He stood very still and erect. His eyes were the color of smoke. The wind whipped his shirt. In the sky above, gulls soared and circled like a silver cloud.

“I have to find Geoffrey,” she said, her words almost lost in the gulls' cries. “And you can't come with me.”

“You can't go off on your own. Look what happened to Eve—”

“They don't want
me
! They want Geoffrey. And I'm their only link. They won't hurt me.”

“How are you going to find him?”

“He'll find
me
.”

Nick shook his head, and his hair danced wildly in the wind. “This is crazy! You don't know what you're up against.”

“Do you? If you know, Nick, you have to tell me.”

He didn't answer. He only stared at her with eyes that had darkened to tarnished silver.
What does he know?
she wondered.
Is he somehow part of all this?

She turned and kept walking. Nick followed her, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets. They stopped at the row of mailboxes, where Whitstable Lane curved into the cliff path. An old man in a postal uniform tipped his hat and rode away on his bike, down the path to Margate. He had just delivered the mail. Sarah reached into the slot marked 25. Inside were another catalog and three bills, all addressed to Eve.

“She won't be needing them,” Nick pointed out.

“No. I guess not.” Sarah stuffed the bills into her purse. “I was hoping there'd be something….”

“What did you expect? That he'd write you a letter? You don't even know where to start, do you?”

“No,” she admitted. Then she added stubbornly, “But I'll find him.”

“How? Don't forget, you've got the CIA down there, waiting for you.”

“I'll lose them. Somehow.”

“And then what? What happens if Eve's killer decides to come after you? You think you can handle him on your own?”

She broke away and headed down the path. He seized her arm and pulled her around.

“Sarah! Don't be stupid!”

“I'm going to find Geoffrey!”

“Then let me come with you.”

“Why?”
she cried, her word lost in the wind.

His answer caught her completely off guard. In one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms. Before she could react, before she could even comprehend what was happening, his mouth came down on hers. The force of his embrace crushed the very breath from her lungs. The cry of the gulls faded, and the wind seemed to carry her up and away, until she lost all sense of where she was. As if by their own accord, her arms found their way around him, to clutch at the hard curve of his back. Willingly her lips parted; at once he was exploring her mouth, devouring her with an animal's hunger. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but Nick, the taste of his mouth, the smell of the sea on his skin.

The gull cries turned into screams as reality rushed in. Sarah wrenched herself free. His expression mirrored her own look of surprise, as though he, too, had been swept up by something he couldn't explain.

“I guess that's why,” he said softly.

She shook her head in confusion. He had kissed her. It had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that she could barely take in what it all meant. She did know this much: she had wanted him. She still wanted him. With every second that passed, her hunger grew.

“Why did you do that?”

“It just happened. Sarah, I didn't mean to—” Suddenly agitated, he turned away. “No, dammit!” he blurted out, wheeling around to look at her again. “I take it back! I sure as hell
did
mean to do that!”

She retreated, more confused than ever. What was wrong with her? Only days ago, she'd thought herself
desperately in love with Geoffrey. Now, at this moment, Nick O'Hara was the only man she wanted. She could still taste him on her lips, could still feel his hands pulling her against him, and all she could think of was how good it would feel to kiss him again. No, she couldn't have him near her. Not now, not after this.

“Please, Nick,” she said. “Go back to Washington. I have to find Geoffrey, and you can't be with me.”

“Wait. Sarah!”

But she was already walking away.

They were quiet as they approached the village. She didn't know what to say to him anymore. It had been easier when they were simply friends, when they were only two people searching for answers. Now just looking at him ignited fires deep inside her, fires she'd never known existed.

Last night she'd been so tired and afraid, she'd been almost glad to share his room. Today everything had changed. She had to leave him. As soon as they reached London, she would pack her bags and walk out of the Kenmore. Finding Geoffrey was something she could only do alone.

By the time they entered Margate, she'd hardened her resolve. Nothing he could say would change her mind. But by God, he'd try; she could see it in his face, in the stubborn set of his jaw. He wasn't through with her yet. It would be a long drive back to London.

Like two strangers walking side by side, they headed for Nick's rented M.G., which was parked on a street lined by tiny shops. Just behind the M.G. was the same black Ford that had tailed them all the way from London. The CIA. So they'd given up all pretenses of subtlety. They were operating in the open now. That would make it easier for Sarah to lose them.