Terry Brooks - Angel Fire East

She stared at him. "Not really."

He nodded some more. "I suppose not. It's pretty complex, even to me. But you got yourself in the middle of something, girl. I know you don't have any part in what's happening, but I—"

"Not this again, Larry," she interrupted quickly.

"I know how you feel, but—"

"You don't know how I feel," she exploded, "and if you want my honest opinion, you don't know what you're talking about, either! If this has to do with that old man in the black coat with the leather book, I'm telling you for the last time— stay away from him. Don't listen to anything he says and don't do anything he tells you to. He's dangerous, Larry. Trust me. You don't want anything to do with him."

Larry Spence screwed up his face and straightened his shoulders. "He's FBI, Nest!" he hissed softly.

She looked at him as if he had just climbed out of a spaceship. "No, Larry, he isn't. He's not one of the good guys. He's not your friend and he's certainly not mine. He's not anything he seems to be. Have you checked up on him? Have you asked for proof of who he claims to be from someone else?"

"Don't tell me how to do my job, please."

"Well, maybe someone should! Look, do yourself a favor. Call Washington or whoever. Make sure. 'Cause you know what? It's entirely possible that old man is responsible for what happened to Bennett."

"You're way out of line, girl!" Spence was suddenly agitated, combative. "You don't know any of this. You're just saying it to protect Ross!"

"I'm saying it to protect you!"

His face flushed dark red. "You think I'm stupid? You think I can't see what's going on? You and Ross are—"

He caught himself, but it was too late. She knew exactly what he was going to say next. Her mouth tightened. "Get out, Larry," she ordered, barely able to contain her fury. "Right now. And don't come back."

He swept past her with a grunt and went out the door, slamming it behind him. She watched him stomp back to his cruiser, climb in, and drive off. She was so angry she kept watching until he was out of sight, half-afraid he might change his mind and try to come back.

When the phone rang, she was still seething. She stalked into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Nest? Hi. You sound a little out of sorts. Did I pick a bad time to call?"

She exhaled sharply. "Paul?"

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

She brushed back her curly hair. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

She nodded at the wall, looking out the window at the empty drive. "Sorry. I just had a visitor who rubbed me the wrong way. How are you?"

"I'm good." He sounded relaxed, comfortable. She liked hearing him like this. "You got my earlier messages, right?"

"I did. Sorry I didn't call back before, but I've been pretty busy. I have some guests for the holiday, and I've..."

She ran out of anywhere to go with this, so she simply left the sentence hanging. "Well, it's been hectic."

"That's the holidays for you. More trouble than they're worth sometimes. Especially when you have a houseful."

"It's not so bad," she lied.

"If you say so. Anyway, how would you feel about having another guest, maybe sometime after the first of the year?"

She couldn't tell him how much she wanted that, how much she needed to see him. She was surprised at the depth of the feeling he invoked in her. She knew it was due in part to her present circumstances, to the loneliness and uncertainty she was feeling, to her heightened sense of mortality and loss. She knew as well that she still had strong feelings for Paul. A part of her had never really given up on him. A part of her wanted him back.

"I'd like that." She smiled and almost laughed. "I'd like that very much."

"Me, too. I've missed you. Seems like a million years since I've seen you. Well, since anyone's seen you, for that matter." His voice turned light, bantering. "Good old Hopewell, refuge for ex-Olympians. I can't believe you're still there. Seems like the wrong place for you after all you've done with your life. You still train regularly, Nest?"

"Sure, a little."

"Thinking about competing in the next Olympics?"

She hesitated, confused. "Not really. No."

"Well, either way, you've got a great story to tell, and my editor will pay a lot for it. We can talk about your career, memories, old times, flesh it out with what's happening now. I can use an old picture of you or have the photographer take a new one. It's your choice. But you might get the cover, so a new one makes sense."

She shook her head in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Of the magazine. The cover. I want to do a story on you while I'm visiting. Mix a little business with pleasure. It makes sense. Everybody wants to know what's happened to you since the last Olympics. Who can tell your story better than me? We can work on it in our spare time. They'll pay a pretty good fee for this, Nest. It's easy money."

All the breath went out of her lungs, and she went cold all over. "You want to do a story on me?" she asked quietly, remembering the editor from Paul's magazine she had hung up on a month or so earlier.

He laughed. "Sure. I'm a journalist, remember?" "That's what coming here to see me is all about?" "Well, no. Of course not. I mean, I want to see you, first and foremost, but I just thought it would be nice if—"

She placed the receiver back in its cradle and severed the connection. She stood where she was, staring down at the phone, unable to believe what had just happened. A story. He wanted to see her so he could do a story. Had the magazine editor put him up to it? Had he thought he could get to her through Paul? Tears flooded her eyes. She fought to hold them in, then gave up. She walked to where Ross couldn't see her and cried silently. The phone rang again, but she didn't answer it. She stood alone in a corner and wished everything and everyone would just go away.

It took her a few minutes to compose herself. Outside, the day was fading quickly toward darkness, and snow was beginning to fall once more in a soft white curtain. Street-lamps and porch lights glimmered up and down Woodlawn Road, and Christmas tree lights twinkled through frosted windows and along railings and eaves. On a snow-covered lawn across the way, a painted wooden nativity scene was bathed in white light.

Ross appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Are you all right?" Everybody's favorite question. She nodded without looking at him. "Just disappointed."

The phone rang again. This time, she picked it up. "Look, Paul," she began.

"Nest, it's Larry Spence." She heard him breathing hard in the receiver, as if he had run a race. His voice was breaking. "I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry, that's all. I'm sorry. I know you'll probably never speak to me again, but Robinson is right—we can't take chances with this business. You're not thinking straight, girl. If you were, you'd see how much danger you're in and you'd get the hell out of there. I'm just doing what I have to do, nothing more. But I'm sorry it had to be me, 'cause I know you—"

"Go away, Larry," she said, and hung up.

She stared at the phone absently. What was he talking about? She had no idea, but his tone of voice bothered her. He sounded anxious, almost frantic. Apologizing like that, over and over, for asking a few boring questions...

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she thought of the children. She had forgotten about them in the rush of events, of Larry Spence coming and going, of the phone calls. She glanced toward her bedroom. They were being awfully quiet in there.

She walked down the hallway quickly, snapping on lights as she went. She was being silly. She was overreacting. Pick's security net was in place. No one could get in or out of her house without her sensing it. She fought down the impulse to run. No, she kept saying inside her head, trying to reassure herself. No!