But she could imagine that someone would want to kill him.

Twenty

Richard walked on the path along the rocks, Lau-ren's poodles scrambling over his feet. He had a mad urge to kick them over the ledge one by one and watch their little white bodies smash on the rocks. The tide could carry them away. Lauren would be left wondering what had happened to them, the way she pretended to wonder what had happened to her brother.

She knew.

She'd always known.

That Richard had planned for this moment didn't lessen his shock at his wife's behavior. At least he knew she had Ike's body and not a stranger, an enemy.

But it wasn't him she was protecting, it was Andrew Thorne. Again, that this was part of his plan didn't ease his disgust.

A cold gust of wind penetrated his sweater, an old wool thing his mother had knitted him years ago.

When he could get away with it, he didn't pay attention to what he wore. It was early, Lauren was still in bed, the sun still low on the eastern horizon, an orange ball reflected on the water. Beautiful, really.

In the end, Andrew would be blamed for Ike Grantham turning up dead in the carriage house cellar. Lauren, unwittingly, would see to that. Richard had put all the pieces into play over a year ago.

He walked out to the edge of a massive outcropping, the ocean and more rocks fifty feet below, gulls wheeling lazily.

The best scenario, still, was for Lauren to grind up her brother's bones and use them on her daylilies. Better yet, dump them at sea.

Once she said her goodbyes, perhaps she would.

Either way, he needed to sit tight and let things play out according to plan. Ideally, no one would have touched the carriage house until long after Ike's body had turned back to dust, and his disappearance would remain a mystery. But that hadn't happened. The timing of Tess Haviland's discovery was awk-ward-even suspicious-but that couldn't be helped. And it ultimately would make no difference. Richard knew he was too important for the Pentagon to pass up because of a little scandal involving the death of his wife's brother.

People often made the mistake of thinking because he was an academic, he was incapable of action. Violence. His work, however, had shown him just how incredibly ignorant most people were, and how dangerous it was to make assumptions based on stereotype and appearances.

"Dr. Montague!"

He turned, squinted at the path up toward the house.

A young man waved excitedly. "Over here! Can I have a word with you?"

A reporter. Richard should have expected as much, but felt every muscle in his body stiffen. He frowned, looking put upon but not afraid. Never afraid. The young reporter bounded down the path, and when he was within a distance that didn't involve shouting, Richard said calmly, "This is awfully early for an interview."

"I know. I figured it was the best time to catch you and your wife at home. I'm Al Pendergast."

Richard knew the byline. Pendergast was with the local paper, not one of the Boston papers. Ordinarily Richard wouldn't give him his time, and he supposed Jeremy Carver would want him to check with him first. But today, Richard already could tell, was one for breaking his own self-imposed rules.

"Walk with me," he said. "Ask your questions."

Muriel Cookson seemed annoyed when Tess entered the Beacon Historic Project offices shortly after lunch. With pursed lips, the receptionist informed her that Lauren Montague wasn't in. "I will tell her you stopped by."

"Actually," Tess said, "I was hoping to look at the archives on the Jedidiah Thorne carriage house. Lauren invited me to-"

"Yes, she told me." Reluctantly, Muriel Cookson directed Tess to the second floor. "Many of the files are quite old and delicate. If you need help, please ask."

Tess promised she would.

The archives were in a small room overlooking the harbor. She was immediately drawn to the view of boats and buoys, the sparkling ocean and endless blue sky. Yesterday's rain and clouds had pushed off over the Atlantic, leaving behind warm, summerlike air and light breezes. These were the images, she realized, that she associated with her best memories of her mother. They were why she'd taken Ike's offer of the carriage house-not its history or its architecture, its rumors of ghosts or any urge on her part to restore an old house. She'd wanted it for its location. The ocean, the rocks, the beach, the gulls and the memories they brought back.

But reality surged back in, as inexorable as the tide. When he'd talked of the carriage house, Ike had made her believe in her fantasy. Then had come the tax bill, the stray pregnant cat, the kittens, the neighbors, the skeleton.

And now, she thought, reporters. They wanted to talk to her about her call to the police over her missing human remains. They'd left messages at her apartment and at her office, where, at least, she had Susanna.

"You need to learn two words-no comment."

"They don't believe me."

"Of course they don't believe you. Tess, you don't even believe yourself!"

It was true.

She'd had trouble from the very beginning believing what she'd seen. Even before she'd charged up from the cellar, she'd backed off. It couldn't be. Not a human skeleton. Impossible.

Because it destroyed her fantasy. It didn't fit with her memories of her mother and her mother's tales of New England history, even the ones that included ghosts.

She set to work. The room was lined with old wooden file cabinets and shelves, with a big, scarred oak table in the middle of the floor. Simple furnishings compared to downstairs. In her work with Ike, she'd never been up here. "Lauren loves the archives. Not me. Boring as hell. A lot of musty, yellowed papers of no importance to anyone with a real life." He'd grinned, irreverent, the adolescent boy who could smile his way out of anything. "Lauren loves them."

Tess never had the arrogance to assume he didn't see through to her weaknesses, just as he did everyone else's. What had he told his sister about her, the graphic designer from Boston?

She familiarized herself with the archives in general, then focused on her carriage house. Information on it was filed with the Thorne family, among Bea-con-by-the-Sea and Gloucester's earliest settlers. It didn't take long for Tess to see that Andrew hadn't been exaggerating when he talked about his ancestors.

Jedidiah Thorne had been a captain in the Civil War, wounded at Gettysburg, but fighting on until Appomattox. In a ragged manila folder, Tess found a brown-edged picture of him in his Union uniform in 1863, five years before he'd shot Benjamin Morse. He stared straight into the camera, unwavering, serious. He was tall and lean, with the same hard angles that were in his great-great-grandson's face.

She stared into his eyes, and she knew they were blue. Her pulse raced, blood pounding, her head whirling. She saw images of bodies littering blood-soaked fields, thousands of writhing men and corpses, dead horses and the living, grim-faced, unable to keep up with the horrors they faced. She could smell the smoke of the cannons, the stench of gangrene and death, and she could hear the cries of the dying, and the friends who'd lost so much.

And she saw Jedidiah Thorne walking among the dead and wounded, himself bloodied as he tended to his men, the other side's men. It was as if she were inside that image captured so long ago, seeing what he saw, touching what he touched. Boys, old men, young. Too many praying, begging. Jedidiah comforting when he could, but never looking away from what he knew he must see.

Hating it. The violence. Promising himself he wouldn't kill again, ever, even in self-defense.