ISBN 1-59201-035-0
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication September 2004
Cover Art by D. Lee
The Company She Keeps
Diana Reynolds Chambers
Copyright 2002
All Rights Reserved
To Everett, who was there from the beginning.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not the goal of the author or Books Unbound.
Prologue
Langley, Virginia
January 1989
They had told him his cowboy days were over. That rogue operators were an endangered species.
But there were others--wiser, perhaps--or, at least, more experienced--who understood that a rogue operator might be exactly what they needed.
Besides, the Director owed him--after Afghanistan. Nick had survived the secret, and still classified, mission by means of his independence and unorthodox approach. Yet his success had not really been in doubt. Nicholas Ross Daley had always been able to run with the ball. He just had to be managed. The good news was they never knew what he'd come up with. That was also the bad news.
So the Powers That Be brought him home, where they could keep an eye on him.
But not too close an eye. Nick was said to bend the rules--and sometimes they didn't want to know. Sometimes it took a certain kind of operative. A lone wolf, creative in tracking his prey.
The Agency needed those skills. Their current target was dangerous, but slick. There was no evidence. No way to indict. There were a lot of facts, but no "hook" to hang them on.
His boss called Nick into Langley. "Get me a hook."
Part I
THE BEGINNING
Chapter 1
Alert, North Carolina
August 1988
She wasn't always a spy.
That all began the day the rock star came and took her away.
The American flag hung limply in front of the white clapboard post office attached to the one-pump gas station. The building was freshly painted, the shiniest building on Main Street. Maybe it would start a trend, maybe not. The little town of Alert would never win a charm contest. Nor did it have much of anything else going for it. It wasn't cool like Southern Pines or cosmopolitan like Raleigh. It was hot and plain.
But it was a town where a twenty-year Army man could buy a small business to supplement his pension and settle down with his family for the second half of his life. Unfortunately, his wife had not seen it that way.
Evelyn thought about her mama sometimes. She wondered if her daddy did, but he'd never mentioned her again. What he did mention, over and over, was how great it was to live in a town where you didn't have to lock your door.
Things were peaceful in Alert, all right. Very peaceful.
People kidded about it. Alert? Give me a break! Evelyn always thought she was the one who invented that joke, but it was an old joke by now, so who knew, for sure? In any case, life was sleepy there, especially in summer.
That particular day was like any other summer day, slow and lazy. The kind that if they got any slower, you'd be going backwards. At least, that's what Pop liked to say. When he said it, he'd give you this look and a wink. Which was how Evelyn knew he was kidding, although her kid brother, Bobby, was never sure. But he was just a skinny twelve-year-old--so what did he know? The problem was, he didn't know he didn't know.
Days like this, she didn't have the energy to get into it with him. Still, she was in charge. Pop was down at Louisburg, the county seat, picking up some thinner and yellow enamel for the trim. Evelyn wiped her forehead, not looking up from her magazine. The smell of paint lingered in the air, but it was no match for the heady fragrance of the honeysuckle vine that curved around the post office window and climbed to the roof, covering it in a mass of green and yellow-gold. The vine was so thick they had to keep cutting it back, but at least they didn't have to reshingle the roof. Couldn't get near it.
Anyway, the place looked a lot better now and Evelyn--"E" for short--was pleased. She liked making things look pretty. Maybe one day they'd get to the inside. If it ever cooled down.
Generally, E liked working the pump better than being cooped up in the office. Engines didn't faze her and there was always the chance for a little friendly flirt. But it was dead out there on the street--so hot you could fry an egg, according to Pop, at least--and there hadn't been a customer for hours. Right now, if one did come along, E doubted she'd be able to peel herself out of her seat. It was all she could do to turn the pages of her magazine. She knew that kind of heat, knew you couldn't fight it, but the oak ceiling fan was doing its best. A faint breeze tickled her bare shoulders and legs, stretched up on the old pine desk. E was wearing a faded pink tank top and her favorite cutoffs--maybe a little small, but too soft and comfortable to pass on to Bobby. Her sandals were pretty new, though, with a cute bead design. Fashionable, she thought.
The can of Pepsi and peanuts forgotten, E was leaning back in her chair engrossed in a copy of Elle. She stared at the beautiful models in fancy clothes. It all seemed impossibly far away. But... a girl can dream, can't she?
Wearing an Atlanta Braves cap, Bobby was sitting on the floor surrounded by shoeboxes full of baseball cards, his stained Rawlings glove, worn bat and souvenir baseball. He was busy, not bugging her for a change.
All's bugging me are these darn flies. E appreciated the humor, then, with a swat of her hand, drifted into more pleasant thoughts. She turned to an article about an elegant, red-haired model--originally from Texas--now living in Paris. Paris?! She opened a stick of Juicy Fruit and popped it in her mouth. In the distance, she heard the cars drive up, but couldn't tear herself from the story.
E ignored the first honk.
But the second honk--more impatient, it seemed--caught her attention. She looked up slowly. The glamorous redhead was forgotten at the sight of two shiny convertibles. One of them was a little yellow Mercedes with a couple of cute guys inside. A white Chrysler followed, so jam-packed with bags and cases that the ponytailed driver was barely visible.
Her eyes widened. "Bobby? Would ya look at that!"
Bobby couldn't be bothered, but E put down her magazine. The little yellow Mercedes was like the one on that TV show about the rich husband and wife detectives, with their beautiful house and clothes. Such fancy cars were a rare sight around there. She figured they must be lost. Alert was smack-dab between two interstates, definitely off the beaten track. Sometimes city people passed through on their way west to the Great Smoky Mountains and the Blue Ridge Parkway to watch the leaves turn. But it was the wrong season.
HONK!
E kept staring. She figured people driving those kind of cars didn't need to be patient.
The blue-jeaned driver of the Mercedes got out and began pacing and looking at his gold watch. He was tall and skinny with long, whitish-blond hair. But it was the dark-haired passenger that held her gaze. E jumped to her feet, then froze.
It can't be!
The man slipped his black, jean-clad legs down from the dashboard, then pushed himself to the top of his seat and hopped out in one long, smooth motion. He stretched with the grace and ease of a cat, his torso bronzed and sinewy. He grabbed his T-shirt from his back pocket and wiped his forehead--covering, then revealing the piercing eyes that dominated his face.
E knew those eyes.
Still staring, she kicked her brother in the butt. "Bobby. That's... Mark Randolph!"
"Who?" Bobby was searching through the Keds shoebox for his Darryl Strawberry card.
"You know."
"Oh, ya mean the one whose pictures are plastered all over your wall?" Still not looking up.
"Hey!" The driver of the Mercedes hollered at them.
E was panic-stricken. "You better go."
Bobby grudgingly started to rise.
"On second thought..." She pushed him back down. "Comin'!" She turned urgently to her brother. "Bobby. How do I look?"
Bobby ignored her. He had found Darryl's card and was staring at it, deep in thought. He was working on a trade for an authentic Hank Aaron homerun ball. "Fine."
E took her chewing gum and blobbed it on Darryl's face, then tugged at a few curls as she rushed to the door.
Bobby finally looked up. "Hey!" Shaking his head, he pulled off the gum and returned to his cards, deciding which he could part with. He was unimpressed by rock stars--although if it were Reggie or Catfish Hunter out there....
E took a deep breath of moist, sweet air, then calmed down. Ya seen one gas tank, ya seen 'em all. She strolled toward the customers.
"Don't hurry on our account." The pale, skinny man looked at his watch again.
"Be cool, Vic." Mark was staring at the girl. At the awesome pair of legs hiking his way.
Vic turned and noticed Mark's antennae up. He nodded and smiled, then headed for the Chrysler, where its driver, "Round" Ralphie, was rifling through some CDs. He found the one he was looking for--Mark "the Man's" latest--popped it in, and turned it up. Loud. The singer's voice was powerful, his backup band unplugged but intense, and their bluesy sounds filled the heavy noonday silence.
Running a hand through his hair, Mark considered those legs, long and golden and definitely going somewhere. And he liked where they led. But when he came to that mouth with the full, softly curving lips--a mouth he was meant to taste--he knew he was in love.
E looked at him as she reached the car. She grinned. It really was him. "Fill 'er up?"
Mark flashed his patented, ninety-nine and forty-four hundredths percent pure smile. He knew this one called for the boyish approach. But not too boyish. Moving a hand slowly down his chest, he selected his most gravelly voice--the one guaranteed to make them swoon. "Please."
E removed the gas cap and went to work, but she didn't swoon, just kept smiling.
Mark was stoked. He watched her, knowing he could make that mouth sing.
"Check under the hood?"
Anytime. But he just repeated, "Please."
E lifted the hood. As she reached out to check the oil, Mark saw her T-shirt tighten over her breasts and was sure he was having a religious experience. He leaned toward her across the engine. "You still allow sexist pigs down here?"
"Huh?"
She looked up--that innocent, heart-shaped face--and he gazed into gentle blue-green. Maui. "I mean--I was wondering if you need any help?"
"That's very kind of y'all--been doin' this for years." She grabbed an old cloth from the top of the pump and wiped down the dipstick.
He didn't ask what she'd been doing, or why she'd been doing it without him. He just kept staring. "Oh."
They grinned at each other. It took a long time to check the oil.
"What's your name?"
"E. That's short for Evelyn. Evelyn Walker."
"Mine's Mark."
"I know," E said boldly.
"Ya do, huh?"
"Yeah. Sure do."
She didn't quite bat her eyelashes, but the effect was the same. He wanted her and wouldn't leave town without her. Mark knew the seductive power of his voice; it became even more gravelly now. "Uh--we're heading up to the Roanoke Rapids. You know--sightseeing. Care to join us?"
She felt maybe she was dreaming. Join him? But what would Pop say? ...Course, he didn't expect to be back till supper. Deep in thought, E finished checking the oil. Then she looked up and noticed Mark watching her hand as she pushed in the dipstick. Their eyes connected again. It isn't every day Mark Randolph just happens by and asks to take you for a ride. She grinned. "Haven't been up there in some time."
He liked her drawl. A southern belle, for real. "You could show us the way, though?"
"Sure could." She turned to remove the gas hose.
Mark let out a long breath. "Okay, then." He hopped behind the wheel, started the engine and cruised forward, then looked over his shoulder. "Hey, guys. Let's hit it!"
Lounging against the Chrysler, Ralphie gave Vic a wink, then jumped in the car and pulled up to the pump.
E jotted down the amount of the first sale, then moved toward the Chrysler, but Ralphie was already filling the tank himself. She shrugged and dropped the oily rag, her mind going a mile a minute.
Vic strolled over to the Mercedes, its engine still running. Like "the Man's." As Mark's manager, he was paid to pick up the vibes. "You need a local tour guide? That's cool. I got some shit to go over with Ralphie."
His gaze on the girl, Mark nodded, as Vic turned away.
E saw Bobby in the doorway by the ice machine, baseball bat against his shoulder. "You mind the station now, Bobby. I'll be home in a bit."
Bobby frowned and rubbed the taped handle. "You know Pop won't like you goin' off with no strangers."
"We're only goin' up to the Rapids--be back 'fore he gets home. Besides, Mark's no stranger."
Bobby shook his head. He edged closer and lowered his voice. "I sure hope Pop don't find out."
She glanced around and saw Mark watching from the Mercedes. And the guy with the big belly had finished filling up the Chrysler. She gazed back at Mark. Still waiting. Taking a deep breath, she added the amount of the second sale to her paper and handed it to Bobby. She popped inside the office, grabbed her purse and ran a comb through her hair on the way out. Although what's the point? It's a convertible! She smiled happily.
Mark leaned over to open the passenger door, his eyes fixed on her. E gave a quick look at her brother, then walked over to the little yellow car and got in. She sat there in the Mercedes as if it were something she did every day--but deep down, she was beyond awe.
Mark flashed a big grin at Bobby. "Don't worry, kid, I'll take good care of your sis."
Ralphie gave Bobby a bill. "Think that'll cover it?"
Bobby looked. A hundred-dollar bill. Wow! "Sure... wait just...." He went to get change, still staring round-eyed at the bill. Twenty-eight bucks for the Chrysler, twenty-five for the Mercedes... that made fifty-three dollars. Forty-seven in change.
Ralphie joined Vic who had managed to clear a space in the front seat. He turned on the ignition and gunned the motor. The caravan was ready.
Bobby whirled around. E waved gaily back at her brother as they drove off.
He held up the hundred-dollar bill. "But...."
Diana R. Chambers' Biography
Diana Reynolds Chambers is a novelist and scriptwriter affiliated with the Writers Guild of America and PEN. She has lived in Paris and Toronto while working on a television series. Her research has led her to Russia and the Caucasus, Turkey, North Africa and many far corners of Asia--from the Afghan border to Tibet, from the Yangtze River to the Karakoram Highway over "top of the world." Her travel pieces and photographs have appeared in numerous North American publications. Excerpts of her work may be seen at http://www.silkroad.org.
Formerly based in Los Angeles, where she also worked as a costume designer, Diana now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she and her husband are the proud parents of a beautiful child from Hunan, China.
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