“R.J.-”

“Sofi, will you do it?”

“I’m on my way.”

Rebecca hung up. The rain had picked up, the wind whipping it against the windows. As a little girl, she had loved to be in there while it rained. She’d color, read, play games with her brothers, just sit and watch the raindrops hit the puddles. Florida storms and the drafty O’Keefe house were different, but she’d brought her love of rainy days south with her.

It would be so easy, she thought, just to go upstairs and curl up on her bed and do nothing.

She dragged out her handbag, withdrew the red velvet bag of stones, and took the two flights of stairs two and three steps at a time and left the Jupiter Stones on her pillow.

Back downstairs, Athena was munching on an English muffin with pictures of dead bodies unfolded on her lap.

“I’m going out,” Rebecca told her. “If an Amerasian girl-fourteen years old-comes by, sit on her until Jared Sloan gets back.”

Athena glanced up with dark, intelligent eyes. “His daughter?”

“Yes.”

“And if he asks where you are?”

“Mt. Vernon Street. He’ll know-tell him it’s all Annette.”

Athena didn’t need to repeat the instructions, just said, “Okay,” and returned to her studying.

Rebecca headed out.

Jean-Paul hobbled down Mt. Vernon Street, knowing there was no longer any time…knowing he should have strangled Annette last night when he’d had the chance. He had jumped in front of the big Mercedes coming out of her driveway, trying to impede its progress out into the street. He’d pulled on the doors, but they were locked. He’d banged on the windows and screamed at Mai to run.

She’d looked nervous, but Jean-Paul had seen Annette’s reassuring smile and heard her as she rolled her window down a few inches. “Don’t worry-I won’t let him hurt you.” Then she’d turned to him. She knew she had him. “See you soon.”

The powerful car lurched, throwing Jean-Paul off. He’d landed hard and cried out at the pain slicing up from his bad leg.

Now he needed a car, a way to get to Marblehead. There was no question in his mind that Annette was using Mai to lure him to her house there. It was a private setting. She could kill him-finally. And Mai? What would Annette do with the girl? Jean-Paul felt himself go numb with shock and pain. Annette would kill Mai. She’d tried once before, in Saigon.

What have I done?

Rebecca Blackburn swung around the corner. Her expression, her mouth set hard against the rain, reminded him of her father so long ago. She was already older than he had been when he’d died. “She’s a relentless mix,” Stephen had said affectionately of his young daughter, “of her mother and her grandfather.”

No, my friend, nothing will happen to her.

But right now Jean-Paul needed her help.

Her gaze fell on him and she didn’t flee, as perhaps would have been smart. She came to him, running hard and just daring him to try and get away. Instead he moved toward her.

Before she could speak, he said, “There’s no time. Rebecca, I need a car. Annette-”

“I know about her.”

Jean-Paul could see that she did, and a surprising sense of peace came over him as Rebecca looked at him without fear, without hatred, without confusion. For the first time in thirty years he had someone who believed in him. That it was Rebecca meant everything to him.

But he said, “It makes no difference.”

“I have a truck. Come on-let’s go. You can tell me everything on the way.”

“No.”

Already starting down West Cedar, she swung back around at him, her rain-soaked hair whipping into her face. Jean-Paul grabbed her by the shoulders and held her tight. If his action created any doubts about her conclusions about him and Annette, they didn’t register in her pale, wet face.

“The keys,” he said.

“If you want them you have to take me with you. My grandfather’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

“Give me the keys, Rebecca.” He hesitated as his words had no discernible effect on her. Then, finally, he said, “Annette has Mai. She’s going to finish what she started in 1975.”

At Rebecca’s stricken look, Jean-Paul acted, taking advantage. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back, sticking one hand into the pocket of her soaked jacket, then the other. He came up with a set of keys.

“Which truck?”

“You’re hurting me-”

“You’ll survive, but I’ll break your arm if you don’t tell me. Which truck?”

“You’ll know.”

Glancing down West Cedar, he saw what she meant. Amidst the upscale cars was one battered ten-year-old truck. He started to release Rebecca, but knew she would only chase after him. Even if she didn’t have his soldier’s experience, she was younger, faster and didn’t have his bad leg. But he couldn’t bring himself to break her arm. Adding pressure, he pushed her down to her knees. She cried out in pain, but he didn’t release her.

“Let me do what I have to do,” he said.

Then, swiftly and with calculated force, he kneed her in the side, catching her in the ribs. She doubled over in pain, momentarily breathless.

Moving as quickly as he could, Jean-Paul hurried toward her truck.

Rebecca caught her breath and forced herself back upright. Her arm ached; she could see the imprint of Jean-Paul’s fingers on her wrist. The cold rain pelted down on her, but she ignored it. To get off West Cedar, Jean-Paul was going to have to drive past her.

In the next seconds, she heard the familiar rattle of her truck.

She was surprisingly steady on her feet, but to mislead Jean-Paul, she wobbled around as her truck came to the intersection of Mt. Vernon and West Cedar and slowed for a car speeding down Mt. Vernon.

Rebecca lunged and grabbed on to the back of the pickup, grabbing hold of the tailgate as Jean-Paul shifted gears and screeched sharply to the right, out onto Mt. Vernon. She could see Jean-Paul checking his rearview mirror. She hauled herself up and over the tailgate and went sprawling into the back of the truck, landing hard.

Jean-Paul slammed on the brakes at Charles Street, got out and walked around to her. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I’m going wherever you’re going,” she said, “even if I have to steal a car and follow you-”

“All right. We’re wasting time.” He put out a hand. “Come on.”

Not trusting him, she ignored his offered hand and climbed down on the other side of the truck. Her arm ached, her side ached, she’d banged her knee leaping onto the tailgate-but Annette had Mai, and Rebecca didn’t know where her grandfather was. She jumped into the passenger seat before Jean-Paul could get back behind the wheel and speed off without her.

“Why do you care so much about me?” she asked him as he thrust the old truck into gear and clattered onto Charles Street, heading toward Storrow Drive.

He looked at her and grunted. “Don’t push your luck.”

“No, I’m serious. You could have knocked me out or run me over. There’s something going on between you and me that goes beyond a macho Frenchman’s idea of protecting a helpless woman.”

His white eyebrows arched, and for a moment she could see vestiges of the dashing race-car driver he’d been. “You’re no one’s idea of helpless.”

“So why do you care about me?”

“Because,” he said, “I’m too stupid to know any better.”

Jared did everything short of taking on a half-dozen security guards and breaking in to Quentin’s condominium in the elegantly subdued five-star hotel on the Public Garden. Chords of Mozart floated down the hall from the tearoom where a pianist in black tie was entertaining the sparse crowd gathered on love seats and wingbacked chairs, being civilized and very correct. The man at the front desk had suggested several times that Jared have a seat in there and await his cousin’s return. A pot of tea and Mozart. Just what he needed.