Fear Familiar Bundle (6 page)

"Eleanor…Ms. Duncan?" A bewildered doorman stood in the hallway. "Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt, but someone left a package for Ms. Duncan while she was out. And since she's never out so late, I thought I'd stop by and leave it and make sure that she's okay. But I see she's fine, and I didn't mean to interrupt and…"

"Come in, Wessy," Eleanor said, rising from the sofa. "What package?"

The doorman reached inside his jacket and brought out a large manila envelope. "Right here."

"Thanks." Eleanor took it and gave the man a warm smile. "Thanks for checking on me. I'm fine."

"I worry about you, living here alone and all. I keep my eyes open, you know." He cast a suspicious look at Peter. "I think a lot of Eleanor," he added.

"That makes two of us," Peter said, shaking the man's hand. "Thanks."

Eleanor softly shut the door, her smile lingering. "He's a dear. If I come home in the rain and he's on duty, he meets me with an umbrella. If I have packages, he carries them. And not just for me, for all the women, young and old."

"Thank goodness for the Wessys of the world." Peter eyed the package curiously. "Research?"

"Hardly. I have no idea what this could be." She opened the flap and pulled out a picture. It was a black and white photograph of herself at the fish market a few blocks away.

"What in the devil?" she asked, handing the picture to Peter. "I was there just this afternoon, buying the snapper."

Peter flipped over the photo. On the back, a message was scrawled in black felt marker. "I'm watching you, my love!"

"Peter, what is this?" she asked, her eyes wide. "What's going on? Who's watching me?"

"I don't know." He dropped the photo onto the coffee table. "I'll be right back." He unlocked the door and dashed down the hall before she could stop him. He was back in less than ten minutes.

"The doorman's gone, and so is Mr. Rousel," he said when he returned, breathing hard. "Maybe after everything that's happened to you, it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk with the CIA." He had a chilling sensation that Eleanor was exactly what she appeared to be, and that somehow her life was in danger.

"Wessy will be back on duty tomorrow afternoon. I'm getting concerned," she admitted. She was curled up on the sofa, and Peter took a seat beside her. Very gently he took one of her hands and held it between his.

"Stay calm." Peter's voice was soothing. "Think about every project you've been working on at the university. We've never really talked about your work. Maybe there's something there, some reason that would draw an attacker or the CIA. There has to be some connection between you, the attacks, the CIA— and maybe that cat."

Peter's questions gave her something to focus her worries on. She quickly went over the past year's work, seeking anything that might interest the CIA— or anyone other than another academic.

She shook her head. "No matter how hard I try, I can't think of a single thing that would be sensitive or even controversial. The core of my research has been on cataloging colloquial expressions from the mountain regions where I grew up. My linguistics research is interesting, not crucial."

"If it isn't your work, it might be personal," Peter reasoned. "You've been single…"

"Nine years," Eleanor said, "and I can't believe that even Carter could have gotten himself messed up with national security. He was a gambler. And not a very good one."

"If someone thinks you know something," Peter pointed out, "they might be tailing you. A little intimidation. Someone followed you to that fish market." He was beginning to like the direction of the conversation less and less. The thought of Eleanor alone, a stranger watching her every move, made him extremely uneasy.

"Peter! This is terrible! Someone might think I've seen something really important!"

"We have to figure this out, Eleanor," he said firmly. "It'll be light in another two hours, and by then, I promise you we'll have a plan."

"I don't want to play junior detective." Eleanor drew back and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of her hand. "I mean it. I'm not interested in solving a mystery or getting involved in this any further. I value my privacy, my sanity, my peace. I want this to end."

"You don't care why these things have happened?" Peter was amazed. "You're not even the least bit curious?"

"I'm not! And it suits me if I never know. All I want is for this to stop. I want to wake up to the sun shining, to a simple Sunday breakfast, complete with a good newspaper and fresh orange juice. Then I want to talk with that agent and get this straight."

"You're exhausted," Peter told her. "I'd like to stay the rest of the night, on the sofa. I'd sleep better if I knew you were okay."

"That isn't necessary." Eleanor felt her discomfort begin to build. Peter had become far too involved in her life— and her troubles. It would be better if he didn't stay.

"Maybe not for you, but it would certainly make me feel better," he pointed out. "I'm not moving into your life, I'm simply going to spend a few hours on your sofa. I'm not going to interfere."

"It's just that…"

"You don't have to explain, Eleanor." He took both of her hands and held them to his chest. "It's just that you've been attacked, and someone did break in here. Until we get to the bottom of this,
I'd
feel better if I knew you were safe." The truth of the matter was that if Eleanor was as innocent as she appeared, he might have jeopardized her!

"Peter, I don't— "

The telephone shrilled.

"I can't believe this," she said, picking up the receiver. "I've had more phone calls and visitors the last twenty-four hours than I've had all year. Hello." She spoke crisply.

"Bad mood, darling?"

It was a confident, familiar voice. She'd heard those words so many times before, spoken with just that same tone of arrogance. She tried to reply, but no words came out.

"Come on, Eleanor. Don't play games. We have a lot to talk about. So much has happened. To both of us."

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"Take a guess. Or better yet, want to make a bet?" Rich laughter spilled into the earpiece of her telephone. "You were never one to gamble, were you?"

Eleanor slammed down the phone as hard as possible.

Eleanor awoke to a strange sense of warmth at the small of her back. Bad dreams of a threatening and well-remembered voice had kept her tossing and turning most of the night. She knew the voice. She'd obeyed it, though unwillingly, but she couldn't place whom it belonged to. Lying on her right side, she opened her eyes. Something warm and heavy was pressed against her.

"Familiar!" she guessed.

"Meowww," came the sleepy reply.

"So now you've invaded my bed! What next?" She turned to pet the sleepy cat and then quietly slid from beneath the covers. "It's obvious that you believe you belong here," she said, slipping into a floor-length robe that matched her purple gown.

She opened the blinds to a beautiful morning, such a contrast to the dark fears she'd fought all night. Peter hadn't believed her when she'd tried to convince him that the midnight call had been a practical joke. Her fear had been too audible in her voice, she knew. But how could she tell him that the voice sounded like…a dead man? The answer to that was simple. She wasn't going to tell him. Carter Wells was dead. The phone call was someone's idea of a practical joke, or at worst, a little scene of revenge for one of Carter's past sins. Like wrecking her apartment and frightening her with the photograph. When the joker got tired, it would all be over.

Taking care to be quiet, she padded down the hall. She could tell by the way the sun came through the window that it was late morning. At the entrance to the living room she paused. Peter was sound asleep on the sofa, one leg dangling from beneath the blanket. His brown hair was rumpled, his lips full and sensual in sleep. She tiptoed past him into the kitchen to make coffee.

As the aroma of the rich Columbian brew wafted through the small kitchen, she tried to order her thoughts. How much would she tell the CIA agent? It wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes to reopen her past. But what was the purpose? When she was married to Carter, she'd known virtually nothing of his business. Now she had left even those shreds behind. And no matter how she tried, she couldn't visualize her dead husband as some counter-espionage person involved in treason. To be sure, Carter had always been an opportunist, but a traitor? Never.

Familiar strolled into the kitchen. His paw grazed the refrigerator door, but he refrained from his morning yowling.

Eleanor absently gave him the last of the snapper she'd saved, stroking his back as he ate. All her life she'd been softhearted, developing strong attachments to loved ones and pets. Out of the mess her life had become in the last forty-eight hours, Familiar was the good part. And Familiar had brought Peter into her life. Eleanor frowned. She still wasn't certain if that part was good or bad.

She poured a cup of coffee and started back to her bedroom, then remembered the morning paper. She loved Sunday's
Washington Post
. Her colleagues would laugh at her, but she took a positive delight in the horoscopes and advice columns. She cracked the front door and reached out a hand.

"Ms. Duncan?"

The unexpected voice nearly scared her to death. "Mr. Rousel?" She saw the agent standing across the hallway, his gray suit as immaculately pressed as if he'd just come from the cleaners. "You startled me." She stepped into the hall, suddenly too aware of Peter's sleeping body on her sofa.

"Could we step inside?" He nodded toward her apartment. "My questions are somewhat delicate."

"No, I'm afraid we can't," she said. She could have given him a very good reason— Peter— but didn't. "I honestly don't have any information that could help you. There's nothing in
my
past that would interest the CIA."

"There's nothing you want to tell me?" he asked. "If you're an accomplice…"

The word triggered a strong reaction in Eleanor. "I've assisted no one in any crime, Mr. Rousel. Not this year, not nine years ago when my husband was killed. There's nothing I can help you with."

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said softly. "We're only interested in protecting you. Your husband was involved in some very serious things in Colorado. A project, maybe you've heard of it. Code One Orange?" He watched her intently as he spoke.

Eleanor shook her head. The man's accusations were ridiculous. "Carter gambled, he lied and he cheated at every opportunity, but I can't believe he was involved in covert activities," she said.

"If an agent couldn't hide his work, he wouldn't be a very good agent, now would he?" Rousel countered softly. "Believe me, he was definitely involved. And that involvement has extended through the years. Until now."

The fear that struck Eleanor was so sudden and so intense that she couldn't respond at all. What had Carter been doing? And did the CIA actually suspect her of criminal behavior, of working against the government?

"Do you have any pets, say a guard dog, to look out for you?"

Eleanor's burst of temper was gone, and his question made her stomach twist. "The building doesn't allow pets."

"Not even cats?" he pressed.

A sense of dread crept over her. "Not even cats are allowed. I've never heard that they're good guard animals, anyway." Her fingertips began to tingle.

"I guess I just have cats on my mind. Several cats were stolen from the research lab. One of them was black. We'd like to get him back."

"What type of research was the cat involved in?" She felt sick. If Alva Rousel found out about Familiar, he'd take him back.

"Psychological." He stared at her.

"I thought that type of testing was more effective with people?"

"I'm not a psychologist." He smiled, taking the sting from his words. "During the break-in, one of the lab workers was seriously injured. His eyes. He thought it was a woman who attacked him."

"I'm sorry," Eleanor said. "But I can't help you with any of that. In fact— " she picked up the paper "I haven't even had a chance to read about it in the
Post
."

"If I've done my job properly, it won't be in the newspaper," he countered. "I'm not overstating the issue when I say that the research I'm investigating is of the most vital kind. Interference, from anyone, could be viewed as an act of…treason." He softened the words with another smile. "I know you're not that type of person, Ms. Duncan. I don't want to intimate that you are." His smile widened further, revealing white teeth. "I don't even believe you're an accomplice. But I do want you to understand the seriousness of this business."

"I'm not the type of person who breaks into buildings," Eleanor said, her fingers wrapping the newspaper into a tighter bundle. "I don't speed, I don't litter. I don't have friends who do those things. In fact, I'm a model citizen. I don't even cheat on my taxes. I can't help you." She opened the door and started inside.

"We're not the only people looking for the stolen items."

Rousel's quiet words stopped her cold. She turned back, feeling herself grow pale as she spoke. "What?"

"I don't want to frighten you unnecessarily, but you should know that dangerous elements are involved in this case. We suspect a faction of a terrorist organization, ruthless people, completely without conscience. Some of them with a long past. Some of them you might know." He stared directly into her eyes.

"I can't help you," Eleanor repeated.

"They may have infiltrated an animal rights organization to use the group to obtain their own goals. I'd hate to see an innocent woman caught up in something tragic." He rubbed the barely visible stubble on his face and gave her a sheepish grin. "I slept outside so I could watch your building. It wasn't all that comfortable, but I had the feeling that you might be in danger."

"What kind of danger?" She couldn't completely cover the panic she felt growing. She was on the verge of telling the man about her midnight phone call and the photograph.

"I can't tell you, ma'am. I shouldn't have told you as much as I did. If I seemed pushy, it was because I was worried. This is a big case, top level."