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never died. Tom could be gorgeous Kelly Ashton’s lawn boy. It was a fantasy that ran an awful lot like a cheap porno flick, starting with Tom slick with sweat from trimming the hedges around the house. Kelly Ashton, with her sweet girl-next-door face, those eyes that were unbelievably blue, and that sinfully perfect body, would be sitting on the screened porch. She’d invite him into the coolness of the house for a glass of lemonade, and . . .
    “You’re awfully quiet,” Crowley commented. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    Oh, no, the admiral most certainly did not.
    “You’re thinking, if the Merchant’s injuries really were that extensive, he wouldn’t have been able to evade capture in the first place,” Crowley continued.
    Not even close. But it was definitely what Tom had thought, both back in ’96 and frequently over the past few years. That is, when he wasn’t thinking about doing Kelly Ashton.
    Which he did too goddamned often. Being back here, across the driveway from the house in which she used to live, wasn’t going to help.
    “Admiral,” Tom said, trying hard to focus, “if the man I saw was the Merchant, he’s had plastic surgery, changed his hair color. But he was the right height, had the right build. And his eyes . . . I know I’m failing to put this into words the right way, but I studied this man. Back in ’96, for months he was the focus of my full attention. I memorized every photo in the task-force file. I spent literally weeks’ worth of time staring at pictures of him, watching video footage, learning to think like him. Maybe I’m crazy but—”
    “That right there is the problem, Lieutenant,” Crowley said. “Maybe you are crazy. I’ve got a file of your recent psych evaluations on my desk, citing a list of side effects you could be experiencing from that knock on the head. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the words feelings of paranoia are very high on that list.”
    Tom ran his hand down his face. He had known this was coming. “You don’t need to remind me, sir. But I did see this man and I had to report what I saw.”
    “What you thought you saw,” Crowley corrected him.
    Tom wasn’t going to argue with an admiral even though he disagreed. “I guess I hoped you’d look into the matter discreetly—see if the Merchant’s been mentioned in any NAVINTEL reports or, hell, in any Agency reports. I know you’re connected, sir. I just want to find out if anyone else out there—someone who hasn’t had doctors drilling holes in his skull in the past few months,” he added dryly, “has seen this guy recently.”
    “I’ll put out feelers,” Crowley promised him. “You just make damn sure you keep any other sightings of terrorists to yourself. If Larry Tucker hears about this, you’ll have medical discharge papers in your hands so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
    “I know, sir,” Tom said. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Get some rest, Tom,” Crowley said, and cut the connection.
    Tom dropped the receiver into the cradle and pushed himself up and out of the chair. He had to stop, supporting himself on the table until the dizziness passed. Then, cursing his weakness, he went looking for Joe, to tell him he was home for the weekend—and that his kitchen needed a coat of paint.
    ________________________________________

    Two
    “KELLY . . .”
    Kelly froze, pulling her head out of the refrigerator to listen intently.
    “Kelly . . .”
    There it was again, barely audible. Her father’s voice, sounding frail and weak. That is, more frail and weak than usual.
    Kelly stuffed the quarter of a watermelon she was holding into the refrigerator and headed out of the kitchen at a run. She hurried down the long hallway that led to her father’s bedroom.
    The room was dim, the shades pulled down, blocking the bright early-afternoon sunshine. Kelly moved toward the bed, letting her eyes adjust, but Charles wasn’t there.
    She crossed toward the bathroom and