It was a beautiful day with only a soft breeze to ruffle her hair. The gulls circled overhead and the sandpipers raced along the beach. Far out at sea, she could see a large tanker. Closer in there were smaller craft-pleasure and fishing boats.
She walked for a couple of miles. The only people she saw were an older man and a young boy digging for clams. She waved and continued on her walk. On her way back, they were still there. A happy sight. She imagined bringing Billy back here someday to dig for clams and throw pieces of bread in the air for the gulls to catch.
Billy was beginning to protest his confinement, so she took him out of the sling and, holding him so that he faced outward, cut inland a couple of hundred yards for a change of scenery and wound through the dunes, occasionally spotting a hermit crab scampering about. At one point, she knelt in the sand to take a better look at one of the ugly little creatures that confiscate the shells of sea snails for their portable homes. “See there, Billy,” she said. “He carries his house around with him. That’s what we’re going to do when Joe gets back.”
While she was kneeling there, she saw something moving just beyond the stand of beach grass. Holding Billy like a sack of potatoes on her hip, she crept forward a bit and parted the grass just enough to see two men heading toward the cabin. The men were young, athletic-looking, and dressed alike in jeans, navy blue T-shirts, and matching baseball caps. She might have mistaken them for two regular guys out for a walk on the beach except that they were hunched over and keeping to the depressions between the dunes as they approached the cabin.
It was happening again. They had tracked her down.
Immediately she dropped lower and scooted in among the clumps of grass, where she lay on her side clutching Billy against her chest. His little body was tense. She could tell that he was about to cry. Hurriedly, she curled her body around him, pulled up her T-shirt, and unhooked the flap on her bra. Just as Billy was about to voice his displeasure, she got a nipple into his mouth.
She heard the screen door slam as other men came running toward the cabin. “Fan out,” she heard a voice call. With her arms around Billy, she used her feet to scoot deeper into the stand of grass as men headed up and down the beach. Others were running toward the other cabins and pounding on doors. She worked hard to control the panic that filled her chest and pushed on her rib cage, making it hard to breathe. She dug in the sand with her free hand, making a trench to lie in. When it was finished, she rolled into it and bent the tall grass so that it arched over her and Billy.
Harvey Morgan was half watching a baseball game and making a second perusal through the morning papers when the doorbell rang. Since he wasn’t expecting anyone, he assumed it was either a kid selling something to raise money for his or her school, scout troop, or church, or a pair of bike-riding Mormon missionaries fresh from the barbershop. Harvey always bought something from the kids. The missionaries got a less friendly response.
The unshaven man standing on his front porch wasn’t a kid, and he certainly wasn’t a Mormon.
“Mr. Morgan, it’s Joe Brammer,” the man said, removing his hat.
“Joe?” Harvey queried, looking over the top of his reading glasses. “Where’s your hair? You look like hell.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”
Harvey pushed open the screen door and stepped to one side while the young man entered, then led the way to the room he and Betty had built onto the back of their house that most people would call a family room, but since he and Betty didn’t have kids they referred to it as the back room. Marvin, the elderly beagle, looked up from the sofa when they entered the room and thumped his tail a few times.
“I remember you,” Joe said, bending to scratch the dog’s chin. “Glad to see that you’re still around.”
Harvey picked up the remote and switched off the television. “Sit down,” he told Joe as he gestured toward the unoccupied end of the sofa. Then he settled himself back into his well-worn easy chair, where he now spent too damned much of his time. He and Marvin were going to turn to stone pretty soon if they didn’t start moving around more.
Harvey watched while Joe continued to pet the dog as he glanced around the room, which-except for being dusty and cluttered with stacks of newspapers-was pretty much the same as it had been when Betty used to give the boy milk and cookies after he finished working in the yard. Or sometimes Joe had simply showed up at the door wanting to return a book or looking for a chess game. Harvey had taught the boy to play. Joe was a reasonably good player but not exceptional. Mostly, though, Joe had wanted to discuss whatever book he was returning, which was always from Harvey’s collection of what Joe called spy books. These books included histories, theoretical treatises, exposés, biographies and autobiographies, and novels detailing careers in and the business of intelligence gathering. And the boy would ask countless questions concerning Harvey’s own years at the CIA. Harvey’s area had been profiling. After years as a double agent, he had become one of the early practitioners in the field and had compiled profiles on world leaders, dictators, political figures, military leaders, and sometimes other spies. Only when he had a heart attack and was forced to retire at age fifty-two did what was left of his family learn the true nature of his government service. He moved back to Houston to be near his ailing mother, renew old friendships, and figure out if there was life after danger and cigarettes. The wife of a friend from his high school days convinced him to accompany them to a school reunion and made sure he met up with his former high school sweetheart, who had been widowed a number of years earlier. He and Betty had had twenty wonderful years together, especially after she retired from her teaching job and they began trekking about the country in their RV. Now he felt lost without her. He even thought about taking up smoking again.
“Mom saw Mrs. Morgan’s obituary in the newspaper,” Joe said. “I’m really sorry. She was a great lady and the best teacher I ever had.”
Harvey nodded. “Your mother wrote a nice note. She mentioned that you had finished law school and were spending some time abroad.”
Harvey recalled how Betty had commented on more than one occasion that if she’d ever had a son, she would have liked him to be just like Joe Brammer. Harvey had agreed with her. Joe was a good kid.
“Okay, son, you need to tell me why you showed up at my front door unannounced, on foot, and unshaven except for your head.”
“I’m afraid that I’m involved in an extremely unusual situation,” Joe explained. “I can assure you that I haven’t done anything illegal or even unethical, but my girlfriend and I are being hunted down by some sort of government agents whom I believe answer to someone high up in the national government. I’m sure the agents involved think they are tracking some sort of international terrorists or a spy who stole national secrets, when what is really at issue is a gross misuse of power over something quite personal and has nothing to do with the law or international intrigue or any sort of threat to the United States government or its elected leaders.”
Harvey nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. “So, tell me, just what is it that you want from me?”
Joe sat up straighter. “Transportation,” he said. “Do you still have the camper?”
“It’s a ‘recreational vehicle,’” Harvey corrected. “And yes, I still have it. I’ve only used it once since Betty died, though. Traveling around the country isn’t the same without her.”
“I need the RV,” Joe said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”