extreme justice
by
unknown

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Bob and Marilyn Huber, for all their help.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, November 10 12: 47p.  m. , Washington, D. C. cc

Pack your bags, J. C. " Winslow's out."

John Chandler didn't have to ask what his long-time friend and
oftentimes partner was talking about.  He muttered an obscenity.

"Your swearing days are just beginning, Johnny, boy.  Pete, our man
inside, says this bird is one unstable element.  Apparently the entire
time he's been in the hole he's gone out of orbit at least once a
month.  And always about Kelsey : '

It seemed as if it was only yesterday that they had collared the
lowlife and slipped him a one-way ticket to the Virginia State
Penitentiary.  Trouble was, the ticket hadn't been good for life, only
for three years of concurrent time, and now the man was back on the
streets, as dangerous a man as John Chandler had ever run across.  And
God knew, as an FBI agent, he'd run across his fair share.

"Is Kelsey still in the program?"  John asked.  He didn't think he
stumbled over her name, was sure he hadn't, but that was how it felt.

Charlie Fulghum sighed and the phone crackled as if in protest.  " " If
you can call it that now.  "

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she's a hard lady to keep under wraps."

"

" Where is she, Charlie?  "

"You know the rules, no whereabouts over the phone.  Besides, you're
going to find out soon enough.  You're the man assigned to her."

John didn't allow himself to think about the implications in that
statement.  Three years and he could still conjure her image as though
he had her picture right in front of him.  He thought instead of what
Charlie had said earlier.  "If she's in the program, why the
assignment? How can Winslow find her?"

"Her face has been on TV almost as much as the national news
broadcasters talking about her.  I'm sure you've seen how the media's
been rehashing her story every night at six and ten.  Apparently, when
the press got word of Winslow's parole, Kelsey became the number-one
missing person.  Her face has been shown on every channel and in every
paper nationwide.  And on one of those daytime phone-in talk shows a
couple of days ago, somebody blabbed about not knowing her, but gave
away the fact she was living in Texas, anyway."

"Damn," John said, but his mind was busy elsewhere trying to fuse
Kelsey Winslow with Texas.  It wasn't working

"And get this, this phone-in caller said our little Kelsey was teaching
people how to protect themselves from " Mr.  Wrong.  " "

John couldn't help but crack a slight smile.  If anyone knew about Mr.
Wrong, Kelsey did.  But of all the rotten luck.  Some busybody without
anything better to do with their time, calling in, tipping Kelsey's
hand..  on national television no less.

The whole idea behind the Witness Protection Program was to keep
witnesses or victims safe.  And to do that, those same witnesses or
victims had to keep a low profile.  Thanks to the media, with their
enthusiasm for keeping the public apprised of every detail of a
criminal's life, and thanks to this anonymous busybody, Kelsey was
right back where she was three years ago, in a whole heap of trouble.

"I suppose they gave a street address, too?"

"I guess we can thank the lady for small favors.  The talk show's host
managed to cut her off before she blurted out the city.  But, hell, it
won't take a genius to find her now."

"Let's hope he didn't see that show, then."

"Guess again, pal.  He saw it."  "

" Speculating?  "

"No such luck.  He was twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the paperwork
to be processed.  Guards said he lit up like a

Christmas tree when that stupid caller said her name, handed him the
state of Texas on a silver platter.  "

"How long has he been out?"

"About thirty minutes now."

John looked at his watch.  "Got a tail on him?"

"Sure.  For all that means.  Remember three years ago?

The man could dodge us better than a fox running from hungry hounds .

John remembered all right.

"Our case worker handling Kelsey says our little gal has been saying
some pretty harsh things about the justice sysq term," Charlie said.

"Such as?"

"Such as the justice system wasn't in place to " mete out justice but
rather to study precedents, plea-bargain, and trade souls for political
expediency.  " She's been teaching other women how to save themselves.
Are you ready for that?"

John couldn't be sure if it was the case worker saying all that, or if
it really came from Kelsey.  Whichever it was, he didn't blame Kelsey
for being disillusioned.  Three years ago her husband had hired a hit
man to kill her, who would have succeeded if the man hadn't
subcontracted the hit to undercover

FBI agent Charlie Fulghum.  And if the FBI, one John Chandler in
particular, hadn't persuaded her to help them run a sting operation on
Winslow.

The FBI and a very scared Kelsey Winslow-now Dobson -had executed an
elaborate scheme to make her husband believe the hit had been carried
out.  They had faked her death, and then had proceeded to arrest
Winslow when he'd met with his "hit man" to pay him for a job
well-done. Unfortunately Kelsely's actually being alive and well had
legally precluded sending her husband up on a murder charge.  Doubly
unfortunately, the federal judge had taken a dim view of their sting
operation, saying that it had smacked of entrapment.  And worst of all,
the state judge hadn't liked the whole thing being dumped in his lap,
so he'd issued a concurrent sentence instead of a consecutive
sentence

So Kelsey Winslow had been forced to sit through the trial, endure her
husband's mealymouthed lies, his tears, and the realization that her
life was, in judicial terms, worth a mere three years.  Luckily John
had managed to wrangle her a slot in the W P. P. and she'd been whisked
out of state , out of Winslow's reach.

If news hounds and a would-be do-gooder had kept her off television,
that would still have been the case.

And now, apparently, he was assigned to safeguard her again.

"You got the tail.  I assume we're already watching her house.  So why
me?"  John asked, as much of himself as of Charlie.

"You know her.  Technically she's still in the program.  We can't have
strangers knocking on her door and saying they're Bureau.  A couple of
bucks and any local library will laminate a badge for somebody.  She'll
need to see someone she knows."

"Why not you?  Or Jackson?  You two are the Bureau's top hot dogs."

"Says you.  But the chief says only the best for this one," Charlie
said.  "Shows what little he knows.  Besides, Jackson 's still in the
hospital from that little car chase last month-" he broke off to fill
John in on his prognosis, which was fairly good "-and I'm undercover
again, Johnny, boy."

"Who are you this time?"

"Not who, what.  I'm a rich yuppie gone haywire, flying back and forth
to Peru to watch flying saucers."

"Much crime in that?  Or are you trying to hitch a lift to another
planet?"  John's mind wasn't on Charlie's operation , but rather on a
tear-streaked face that for some reason wasn't a whit blurred with
time.

"It's amazing how much cocaine these close encounters produce."

"Working with Treasury on this?"

"Sure.  Look, if you want your chart done, I can get you a good deal.
And, if you want to trade cases, I'll do it in a New York minute."

"If you can guarantee that KqIsey isn't going to slam the door in my
face when I go a-knocking, then by all means, go for it."

"Just try for a little charm, Chandler.  It's a five-letter

"What's it mean?"  "Look it up.  While you're at it, you might
cross-reference

"I'm in the Bureau, not diplomacy," John said.  "My job script ion says
carry a badge, not flowers."

"beats me why you got women chasing after you, Chaner According to the
latest magazines, women like a little

John couldn't be sure if it was the case worker saying all that, or if
it really came from Kelsey.  Whichever it was, he didn't blame Kelsey
for being disillusioned.  Three years ago her husband had hired a hit
man to kill her, who would have succeeded if the man hadn't
subcontracted the hit to undercover

FBI agent Charlie Fulghum.  And if the FBI, one John Chandler in
particular, hadn't persuaded her to help them run a sting operation on
Winslow.

The FBI and a very scared Kelsey Winslow-now Dobson -had executed an
elaborate scheme to make her husband believe the hit had been carried
out.  They had faked her death, and then had proceeded to arrest
Winslow when he'd met with his "hit man" to pay him for a job
well-done. Unfortunately Kelsely's actually being alive and well had
legally precluded sending her husband up on a murder charge.  Doubly
unfortunately, the federal judge had taken a dim view of their sting
operation, saying that it had smacked of entrapment.  And worst of all,
the state judge hadn't liked the whole thing being dumped in his lap,
so he'd issued a concurrent sentence instead of a consecutive
sentence

So Kelsey Winslow had been forced to sit through the trial, endure her
husband's mealymouthed lies, his tears, and the realization that her
life was, in judicial terms, worth a mere three years.  Luckily John
had managed to wrangle her a slot in the W P. P. and she'd been whisked
out of state , out of Winslow's reach.

If news hounds and a would-be do-gooder had kept her off television,
that would still have been the case.

And now, apparently, he was assigned to safeguard her again.

"You got the tail.  I assume we're already watching her house.  So why
me?"  John asked, as much of himself as of Charlie.

"You know her.  Technically she's still in the program.  We can't have
strangers knocking on her door and saying they're Bureau.  A couple of
bucks and any local library will laminate a badge for somebody.  She'll
need to see someone she knows."

"qy not you?  Or Jackson?  You two are the Bureau's top hot dogs."

"Says you.  But the chief says only the best for this one," Charlie
said.  "Shows what little he knows.  Besides, Jackson 's still in the
hospital from that little car chase last month-" he broke off to fill
John in on his prognosis, which was fairly good "-and I'm undercover
again, Johnny, boy."

"Who are you this time?"

"Not who, what.  I'm a rich yuppie gone haywire, flying back and forth
to Peru to watch flying saucers."

"Much crime in that?  Or are you trying to hitch a lift to another
planet?"  John's mind wasn't on Charlie's operation , but rather on a
tear-streaked face that for some reason wasn't a whit blurred with
time.

"It's amazing how much cocaine these close encounters produce."

"Working with Treasury on this?"

"Sure.  Look, if you want your chart done, I can get you a good deal.
And, if you want to trade cases, I'll do it in a New York minute."

"If you can guarantee that KqIsey isn't going to slam the door in my
face when I go a-knocking, then by all means, go for it."

"Just try for a little charm, Chandler.  It's a five-letter

"What's it mean?"  "Look it up.  While you're at it, you might
cross-reference

"I'm in the Bureau, not diplomacy," John said.  "My job script ion says
carry a badge, not flowers."

"Beats me why you got women chasing after you, Chaner According to the
latest magazines, women like a little razzle-dazzle now and then.  A
lady who gives lectures about Mr.  Wrong might be more easily
approached through those channels."

"You learned how to read on your last assignment, did you?  Anybody
call Ripley's?"

John was glad the chief had handed Charlie the task of bringing him
into this case.  The easy banter they'd always maintained and their
long-standing relationship allowed him to read between the lines.  The
primary unspoken message was: Kelsey 's different.  The chief wouldn't
have passed this along.  How was she different?  She was talking about
Mr.  Wrong, for one thing.  That right there showed a pretty big change
from the nervous, fragile woman he'd known three years ago.

John asked for some details-the wheres, whens and hows-and Charlie told
him a packet would be arriving for him shortly.  They gave each other a
few casual verbal punches and hung up.  But John didn't move away from
the phone for a few minutes.  His mind chased stray thoughts around in
his head like a dog chased its own mangy tail.

What would Kelsey have to say to a bunch of victims about protecting
themselves from Mr.  Wrong?  She had been about as capable of defending
herself as a kitten would have been at avoiding a pack of hungry
coyotes.  He could all too easily remember her sweetly rounded,
trembling form securely wrapped in his arms.

That memory was too much; now he had to move.  He shoved away from the
desk.  He'd only been back in D. C. for a couple of weeks and the
mountain of paperwork had already been whittled down to creditable
size.  As usual, he'd turned the stack upside down and worked in that
fashion, from the bottom up, past to most recent.  He only had last
week's files left to log.  He could be ready to leave in fifteen
minutes.

The thought that he'd been back in D. C. only a few days and would be
leaving again so quickly didn't bother him.  That was his job.  The
ability to hop a plane at any hour, to sky out, resolve a case and
depart as quickly was part of the reason he, Charlie and Jackson were
three of the most traveled agents in the Bureau and why they served as
a three member trouble-shooter team that bounced around the country
almost as often as airline pilots.

The fact that this jumping around the continent had cost both Charlie
and John their marriages, and made Jackson a hardened bachelor,
scarcely even crossed John's mind anymore.  Not having a particular
district, not being tied down to administrative duties, lent each
assignment an element of adventure, sometimes even danger.  Even the
lousy hold-somebody's-hand assignments took on a different cast when
the locale was different, the case fresh.

Each of the three men was uniquely suited to the strange life-style.
Charlie and Jackson had both come from traveling backgrounds, had
fathers who were roving salesmen and who had taken their families with
them from locale to locale Those two had grown up in twenty or thirty
different states, dozens of different schools, never having any real
roots or place to call home.

As an environmental opposite, John had been raised in a small-town
church home for orphans in Montana, had never strayed more than four
miles from the old building with its population of thirty kids who'd
grown up never knowing the meaning of love and trust.  Unlike many of
the kids in the home, John hadn't been an orphan, his parents were
alive and presumably well somewhere, anywhere but with him.  He'd had
relatives, too, but they couldn't be bothered with an extra mouth to
feed.  John didn't feel any animosity toward them; it was a matter of
hard reality in hard times.

As a youngster, John's only ambition had been to get as far away from
Montana as he possibly could.  The army was the quickest ticket out.
And the army had suited John right down to his toenails.  And luckily
for him, one of his commanding officers had seen something special in
the young, restive private assigned to his platoon.  He had encouraged
John to stick out the army for a few more years and let them pick up
the tab for a college education.  Criminal justice had claimed his
attention, not the prosecuting-defending end of justice but the
face-to-face-confrontation-with-the criminal -element kind of
justice.

The Bureau had offered him a job when he'd graduated and, after he'd
repaid the college debt by serving another four years-this time as an
officer himself-he'd signed on with the FBI.  He was now approaching
forty, and eligible for retirement in another seven years if he didn't
fold in his army time, next year if he did.  But John had no intention
of quitting the Bureau; it was his life.

John sighed, stretching his back, hands on those particular muscles
that sometimes refused to cooperate no matter how many sit-ups he
managed in the morning.  A bullet nearly four years ago had ripped
right through him.  Maybe that's why his back seemed to hurt now,
because he was going to see Kelsey Winslow again.  His damaged back had
been the whole reason he'd been assigned to her case in the first
place.  It was supposed to have been a cushy job.

Damn, he murmured, not directing the remark at anything in particular.
Circumstance, perhaps, or maybe the vagaries of memory.  That
particular assignment had been anything but easy and for a host of
reasons that had nothg in at all to do with danger, the Bureau, or Bill
Winslow s sociopathic tendencies.

Three years had passed since then.  Three long, event filled years.
Time that had nothing to do with Kelsey Winslow 's blue eyes, shaking,
delicate fingers, or silky blond hair.  Certainly time enough for her
face to have blurred with a hundred other faces, for her case to have
been lost in the complex filing system in his head.  But, no, here was
that file, right on top, right where he had shoved it on a December
morning three years earlier.

How many times had he taken that particular mental file out and
reviewed it?  More than he ever would have admitted aloud.  And each
time he had remembered a single stoExtreme len kiss, and that look of
hurt in her eyes when he'd told her he had to leave, that the case was
finished.  Have a good life.

This was his mental file, so it seemed unfair that he couldn't switch a
few details, alter a fact here and there, and close it once and for
all, store it back in the dark corners that held all the other closed
cases, memories too uncomfortable to review, chapters ended.  What was
it about Kelsey that seemed to defy being shut away in the dusty
recesses of his mind?  What was it about the memory of her that
wouldn't let him forget her?

Wednesday, November 10 1: 00 p. m. , Leesburg, V'crginia

Bill Winslow leaned back from the cafe's chipped Formica countertop and
lit a cigarette.  He pushed his nearly polished plate to one side to
use as an ashtray though there was one within reach.  He slowly swung
around on the barstool , surveying the other occupants of the small
backwoods

Virginia eatery.  One was a local farmer, judging by his dirt-encrusted
coveralls and faded flannel shirt.  Another was a long-haired, scruffy
man of about thirty in an army flak jacket who continually made passes
at his nose with a tissue, all while studying what looked to be the
want ads in the local paper.  The third and final diner in the cafe,
excluding the rather scrawny waitress with the chipped nail polish, was
dressed in suit and tie, and reading a Virginia state map as though it
were a Harvard classic.

Bill smiled.  He paid his check before finishing his cigarette and
didn't leave a tip.  He'd learned early in life that you only tip when
you're going to come back to a place and wanted something from the
waiter or waitress.  This one he would never see again, so there wasn't
anything she would ever be doing for him, ergo, no extra change was
necessary.  He strolled out into the sunshine and turned up his jacket
collar against the chill wind.  For a moment he just stood there, his
face to the sun, as though he had all the time in the world, as if he
were savoring the enjoyment of his newfound freedom.

As he expected, the businessman came out of the cafe, fumbled with his
keys and climbed into a Chevy that had seen better days but was freshly
waxed.  Bill watched him set the map aside and put the car in gear.  He
raised a hand as the driver slowly pulled out of the parking slot.  The
driver stopped and rolled down his window.

"Are you heading into the woods country?"  he asked with a slight
smile.

"How did you know that?"  the driver asked.

"I saw you reading the map," Bill supplied, his smile broadening.  " "
Salesman?  " " "That's right," the man said.  He gestured with his
thumb toward the trunk of the car.  "Got a bunch of medical supplies my
company's trying to peddle to the smaller clinics."

"I'm heading to Berkeley Springs, and I know the back roads pretty
well," Bill said.  "I don't suppose you'd like a guide?  "

The driver hesitated a moment, then nodded at the passenger door.

Bill walked around the car, relaxed and easy.  He climbed in the seat,
pulled the door shut behind him.  As they were driving away he glanced
in the side mirror in time to see the scruffy young man emerge from the
cafe, his nose no longer dripping, his newspaper apparently forgotten,
a frown creasing his brow.

Bill smiled and introduced himself to his mark.  The game had begun.

Wednesday, November 10 1: 30 p. m. , Washington, D. C. One of the
office assistants pushed through the door, a huge stack of files in her
arms, obscuring her face.  She walked by John's desk and, without
pausing, tossed the thick envelope in her hand in the general direction
of his chair.  He caught it and was about to throw back some wisecrack
when he saw the name across the envelope, Kelsey

Winslow / Dobson.

He sat back down, forgetting all about perky, hardworking

Annie and her stack of files.  This was the one that interested him.
The only one.  He unwound the string binding the seal and dumperi the
contents on his desk.  Naturally the top item was a photograph of
Kelsey.  It figured.

She was even pretty in black and white.  All soft curves and sharp
contrasts.  He flipped the photo over and saw that it had been taken
almost three years earlier.  Was that why it seemed that fear and hurt
still lingered in her gaze?  Were those emotions still there now or
would he be the one to reawaken that particular haunted expression?

He set the photo aside, deliberately turning it facedown.  Attraction
didn't have a place in responding to a case.  He picked up the next
sheet of paper.  A memorandum of conversation from their man inside the
pen.  John couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for Pete Dahlstrom.
That poor guy switched prison cells more often than most hardened
criminals John didn't think any amount of bonus cash would compensate
for that kind of detail.  But Pete claimed to like the routines, like
the danger element.  He also liked his paid for

Jagua: and house in the Seychelles.

According to Pete's notes, most of which corroborated what Charlie had
said on the phone, Winslow was definitely a candidate for the nearest
shrink's couch.  But for all his outbursts, he hadn't been involved in
any prison unrest and had somehow pulled down a good-behavior rap.
Nuts, but polite was the overall review.  But in Pete's notes an
ominous thread recurred.  Winslow certainly hadn't forgotten Kelsey,
the scam she'd helped perpetrate on him, and most particularly, her
testimony against him in court.  Agents inside had managed to get their
hands on a diary of sorts when

Winslow was transferred from one cell to another wing a and this
despite the fact that he didn't agree with going couple of months back.
It, too, was included in the packet, around the law.  But however much
he worked to uphold the a note from Pete attached.  system, he had to
admit that it failed some people-these According to the attachment,
each of Winslow's out women whose children's purportedly abusive
fathers had bursts" coincided with the diatribes to be found inside the
been granted custody or had kidnapped the children, or diary, and all
of those focused on what Winslow planned to ; qople such as Kelsey, who
had to face her murderous exdo to Kelsey upon his release.  And each of
them cursed the husband's " good behaviour" release.  FBI for hiding
her whereabouts from him.  ;

The show, for all its information, was largely innocuous,

P ,

Another item in the jacket was a review of Winslow s re- and certainly
couldn't have hurt anyone, until the phone-in lease, complete with the
guard s comments on the prison- Part came up.  Whatever had been said
by the panelists was er s reaction to the television show mentioning
Kelsey.  Also enclosed was a video tape of the program.  John smiled
largely ignored by the callersq each of whom seemed to have wryly as he
crossed the room to the television set and i some personal ax to grind.
My h qbt n h le id I fdo?  y S rs plugged the tape into a VCR slot,
depressing the Play but- I ago for a younger woman.  w a s you he ton;
the Bureau was nothing if not efficient.  shouldn t be entitled to his
retirement, should she?  I was the The television screen lit up and
revealed the opening se- one who raised his two children, who had to
live with him quence of a popular daytime talk show.  The host, a
pretty, for thirty years.  There were other callers like that one,
petite blonde, told her audience to take out pens and pads, some
advising, some nearly begging.  The host handled them they were all
going to learn how to cushion their lives to all graciously and
smoothly.  avoid the kind of man like Bill Winslow, the man stirring up
q And then it came.  The camera was panning the audi all the
controversy these days because he was being released ence, the
panelists, the host.  A woman s voice asked if the after three years'
prison time after having been found guilty host could hear her.  At the
affirmative, the voice congratof hiring a man to kill his wife.  The
host said that no one ;q ulated the panelists on their help to women
who had had knew the whereabouts of Kelsey Winslow, but that
everydifficulties'I know how valuable that is," she said.  "I one there
sincerely hoped all was well with her.  mean, I've been there.  And
I'll tell you something, I really She went on to say that with them
that day were panelists ; feel sorry for Kelsey Winslow having to run
from her ex from all parts of the country, each working in different
ways husband.  I know a woman here in Texas who looks a lot like to
help women avoid the pitfalls of placing their trust in the her-in
fact, it's amazing, they even have the same first wrong man.  The
panelists ranged from a woman who ran an name... Kelsey, and I mean to
tell you, it made me won underground railroad system to aid women in
recovering der, they look like identical twins-but anyway, this woman
their kidnapped children, to a male attorney who had just I know isn't
a victim.  I mean, she's strong.  written a book on the legal issues
involved in suing a parent " "And she learned it all herself.  Taught
herself, I mean.  for child abuse that occurred more than twenty years
ago.  i And she's sharing that with other people.  People like me. John
was fairly impressed with how knowledgeable these She's taught me so
much.  I'll never be a victim again.  She's panelists were, even found
himself nodding his head at some got a different name now, and she's
very strong.  She teaches of the advice the underground railroad woman
was giving, all kinds of women not to be afraid anymore.  I mean, she's
got her life together.  Kelsey, my Kelsey, I mean, isn't scared
anymore."

John groaned as the camera did a close-up shot of first the show's host
and then the lawyer on stage.  Both of them wore the same expression of
shocked enlightenment.  John was sure that same look was on his own
face.

This was more than a would-be do-gooder.  This woman was a menace to
the human race.  If she had given Kelsey's address, she could hardly
have made it any clearer that Kelsey

Winslow was alive and well in Texas.  It was a big state, but Winslow
was a bigger nut.  The camera again focused on the host who was calmly
thanking the caller.  John could have kissed the woman when she offered
the placid suggestion that Kelsey Winslow would be glad to know that
someone was fighting back, that wherever she might be, it would
probably make her happy to know that a namesake was making it possible
for other women to avoid what she'd gone through.  She closed the
program with a thanks to the panelists and offered the microphone to a
member of the audience as the credits rolled.

But no matter how smoothly she'd handled the call, the damage had been
done.  John's first course of action would be to contact the station to
make certain the FBI had already slapped a suppression on their phone
records so that Winslow couldn't trace the location of that ridiculous
call.  He was on the phone to the show's producer before the credits
even finished rolling.

As luck would have it, he was patched into the host herself , and after
a terse explanation of what he needed, she immediately assured him of
her program's compliance.  She wished him luck, took down the Bureau's
Texas number so she could report any requests that might come in, and
hung up.

With an angry jab, John ejected the tape.  Whoever that caller was, she
was a bloody idiot.  And right now, he projected that anger to Kelsey
for teaching survival techniques to such jerkwater women as the one who
had called in.  What was she thinking of, being so public?  He'd busted
his fanny to get her into the Witness Protection Program, pulling every
string he could to get her safe, all because he'd believed what she'd
told him about her ex-husband.  And then she had to go and amass the
kind of dippy fans who called in on national television shows and all
but spelled out her whereabouts to the world at large.

John tossed the tape on the desk and picked up the rest of the chief's
information sheets.  The guards had reported that Winslow had hardly
seemed to react to hearing Kelsey's name mentioned, that he'd only
grinned.  Broadly.  But what he'd said-and what he'd written in his
diary-had made the guards slip the word to Pete, who had immediately
called the Bureau.

Ifyoa want something done right, you know you just got to do it
yourself.  That was all Winslow had said, and looking at the words,
John knew he shouldn't have felt a cold chill work up his arms.  But
the guards-and Pete backed this up-said in the notes that it wasn't the
words that got to them.  "It was the look in the guy's eyes.  Glittery.
Like a wolverine's.  Spooky."

Of all the animals, the wolverine was the most dangerous , because it
was the only one that killed for the sheer sake of slaughter.  John had
to wonder how a wolverine could be released on good behavior.

Yet Bill Winslow had been released, set back into the world, free to
become a member of society, debts paid, penance served.  Three years in
a federal prison done, spent, and well finished.

If you want something done right..

There was really only one way to interpret that remark.  Winslow had
been angry enough, possessive enough and undeniably enough of a nut
case to hire a killer for his wife three years ago simply because she'd
been trying to get free of him through the divorce-court system.  Now,
after public humiliation, three years in prison, loss of home, business
and wife, it didn't take a mastermind to understand that he'd be more
than a little upset.  And that he fully intended to finish the job he'd
started three years ago.  But this time, he was going to do it
himself.

John opened the diary, flipped a few pages, scanning them swiftly,
looking for any indication that Winslow might have known Kelsey's
whereabouts.  What he read convinced him it was a damn good thing the
man hadn't known where she was.  She wouldn't have been alive to be
talked about by that caller.  She might know a lot about Mr.  Wrong,
but Winslow was a step beyond "wrong" ; he was well on his way to
berserk.

The vitriol, the viciousness and the sheer bizarre quality of Winslow's
entries made John's stomach knot in hot anger , his jaw clench in
disgust.  A man such as this could get off on good behavior?  No wonder
society was so screwed up, he thought.  Something like this, a man such
as Winslow , created a whole world of confusion around the fuzzy
concept of "good" and "bad: This man wasn'tjustbad,he was crazy bad.

John dropped the diary to the desk as though it soiled his hands.  He
almost shoved it into the trash can, but knew he couldn't.  It
definitely could be used as evidence against Winslow.  Could be used as
proof he intended his former wife some amazing forms of torture.  John
flipped it into the packet, scarcely touching it.

Frowning heavily now, he sorted through the rest of the paperwork for
the one thing he sought.  He scooped it up with an almost angry swipe.
Flicking open the narrow flap, he checked the departure schedule and
the airline he would be traveling.  And, most important, the
destination.

Lubbock, Texas.  Why did that still strike him as unlikely ?  Because
he pictured her in the smallish, redbrick Colonial outside Bethesda,
Maryland?  Or was it because something about the expansive skies and
broad, flat terrain that surrounded Lubbock seemed too big for Kelsey,
too frightening for an Eastern city girl who had already been too
harshly used?  Did she like it there?  Did she miss the lush greenery
of Maryland?

John had been in Lubbock only once, and that for a congressional
delegation assignment that had meant four days in hotel rooms eating
room service overcooked steaks and trying not to think about his
marriage that had finally and irrevocably bitten the proverbial dust.
Dayna had cried when she'd told him it was over; he could still
remember that.  And she'd said, an odd note of sadness in her voire,
that she hoped he'd meet someone who broke his heart one day..  because
then at least she'd know he had one.

Had Kelsey been in Lubbock, then?  He wished he'd g , known, and, at
the same time, was lad that he hadn't.  For if he had known she was
there, he might have given in to temptation and called, done the
ordinary ask-her-out-to dinner , talk-about-old-times routine.  Only he
would have been going against company rules.  And he would have left
town a couple of days later without having changed anyway , still the
rolling stone that never got close enough to anything to gather the
moss that cluttered life.

The notion of arriving in Lubbock now, only to ride off again into that
age-old sunset, having presumably saverl the day and won the battle but
ultimately feeling he might yet again be losing some war he didn't even
want to understand , made him feel inexpressibly lonely.

He stuffed the packet contents back into the Kelseymarked envelope,
called a goodbye to his co-workers-most of whom were practically
strangers as he so seldom saw them-and was out the side door of the
main Bureau.  He was across Dupont Circle in a matter of minutes and in
his place off Connecticut Avenue in even less.

Inside his nearly austere apartment, and for the first time since the
call had come in about Winslow, John relaxed somewhat.  Once again, he
was donning the white hat, setting out to vanquish the bad guys.  He
knew his role, he was the faceless stranger who never got involved, let
nothing interfere with his job, with the task at hand.  Yes, he knew
his job wqell, did it even better and could rely upon his instincts for
survival.  And as always, he'd leave, heart whole and ready for the
next challenge.

He felt ready.  Prepared.  Ready to see Kelsey Winslow again.  His
smile faded.  He felt strangely irritated.  Not angry , exactly, just
out of sorts, a feeling that seemed to intersect somewhere between
anticipation and extreme reluctance.  Unbidden, the memory of that
single kiss he'd shared with Kelsey Winslow crept into his mind.

It had happened the night of her "reported" death.  She'd been standing
in her tidy little kitchen, filling something a glass of water, or the
coffeepot, he couldn't remember which-at the sink.  She'd been unaware
he was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.  He hadn't
been talking, hadn't been even really thinking, just watching her.
She'd been the picture of courage during the whole soiree.  But just
then, when she didn't know anyone was watching her, when she'd thought
she was all alone, doing some routine task, her blond hair caught up in
a loose half braid at the back of her neck, he'd seen her shoulders
heave, had seen her whole body tremble in a shudder that seemed to come
more from her soul than from any physical plane.

She'd dropped whatever it was she'd been filling.  It had clattered
like an alarm in the sink.  If he'd been smart, he'd have listened to
the message in that sharp sound, he'd have turned around and left the
room, left her to her tears, given her the privacy she probably
needed.

But he hadn't abandoned her to the grief that rocked her.  He hadn't
even thought about it.  He'd crossed the small kitchen in less time
than it takes to tell and had pulled her into his arms.  He'd told
himself then-tried reminding himself now-that he'd intended it as
comfort only.  Just a shoulder to cry on.  Just acting the role of that
nameless, faceless knight who saved the damsels in distress in all the
stories with the sunset endings.

But with her trembling body against his, her warm face pressed to his
collarbone, her silken hair brushing his face, he'd found himself
forgetting she was running for her life that he was married, that he
never ever got involved.  When she'd turned her face upward, her blue
eyes shimmering with tears, her lips parted with unspoken question,
unvoiced need, he'd succumbed to an irresistible urge to taste her.

And was immediately sorry for he felt he was drowning in ; the promise
of her lips, the pliant body against his, the need, '; the want that
threatened to engulf them both.  He'd felt her tremble then, but for a
different reason than when he'd crossed the room.  He'd recognized the
difference because he'd felt the echo reverberating in him.

And three years later, a million people and miles between them, he
still remembered it.  Still felt the distant resonance that she'd
sparked in him.  And he remembered how he'd pulled away, holding her at
full arm's length, still feeling the electricity that sparked between
them despite the distance, ' in spite of his determination not to feel
it.  Her eyes had been half-closed, he remembered, her lips full and
moist, dewy..  kissed.  Her lower lip had quivered, as though begging
for more, and her breath had been ragged.  God.  No man had ever been
offered such an enticing invitation, and nothing had been more
difficult than walking away from it.

"I'm married," he'd said.  Even as he'd said it, he wondered why he'd
told her.  He told himself then, and tried believing it again now, that
he'd done so because he was a man who played by the rules, who lived by
them, who made his living upholding them; it was all he knew and all he
believed in.  But there was more to his two words than that.

He'd known it then, still couldn't deny it now.

In that single kiss, in the feel of her in his arms, the want of her in
his body, the taste of her on his lips, Kelsey Winslow had ceased to be
a "case" -she'd become a threat.  Certainly not to his marriage, that
had been as over as anything , but the final decree could make it even
then.  No, it was a lot more dangerous to him, to the barriers he'd
placed between himself and the world long ago.  And that was a threat
he would not allow.

Looking at him with large, hurt eyes, a rigidity stealing into the
shoulders that only seconds before had been malleable and fluid, Kelsey
Winslow had suddenly become everything that John Chandler had avoided
like the very plague.  She had represented involvement with a capital
I. And big, brave John Chandler had run away as hard and as fast as he
possibly could.  Oh, he'd finished the job, he'd bagged the bad guy,
made sure Winslow was sent up, had even arranged for Kelsey to be
squeezed into the Witness Protection Program, telling himself he could
do no more for her than that, ensuring her safety for life.

But he'd been running the whole time.  He'd hidden behind the mask of
duty, responsibility and nobility until all those virtues tasted like
yesterday's soured milk.

And here he was again, packing to wing his way to rescue Kelsey
Winslow.  He was finished in less than fifteen minutes It was as if
he'd practiced this drill at least once a week every week for the time
Winslow had been in jail.  True, he was continually on the road, used
to having to pack rapidly But now, the whole time he was tossing spare
clothes, shaving kit and that packet of potential evidenee into the
canvas overnight bag, adding a few Bureau items like a phone scrambler,
a slim, laptop computer with a patch-in system and a couple of other
handy doodads, he found himself thinking about a pair of eyes that
sparkled qhen they were amused, a set of lips that seemed as generous
as a summer's morning, tears that spilled hot and salty, cleans Extreme
ing her soul but searing his.  qc could try to kid himself until the
proverbial cows came home but this wasn't just a case.

It was Kelsey 's case.

The four words rattled around in John's mind like a marble in a tin
can, ricocheting back and forth, echoes of a nightmare that should have
ended three years ago, but which, instead, had merely been put in
temporary abeyance Out of nowhere came the notion that it was time to
pay the piper.  Winslow's time?  Kelsey's?  Or was it his ,

John's, time to finish off things never really started?  I He thought
about Charlie's unspoken message of Kelj sey's being different.  There
were such things as surface changes, but Charlie's tone had implied
other alterations.  If

Kelsey was teaching women how to peg a Mr.  Wrong, had she found his
counterpart, Mr.  Right?

If she was speaking in public, standing up for women's rights,
disguised or not, then she had changed, indeed.  Because three years
ago, Kelsey hadn't stood a prayer against

Winslow.  Delicate, fragile, blue eyes as big as twin skies, full lips
pressed together to hide their trembling, and already frazzled by the
decision to divorce, the bitterness and physical abuse she'd suffered
in that trying period had made her understandably confused and
frightened when John and his team of agents had appeared on her
doorstep with the news of the contract her husband had put out on her.
And she'd been further frightened by their scheme to not only save her
life, but to put her husband away, as well.

Scared or not, Kelsey had performed her role exactly as they had
commanded, had never even questioned their dictates , had, in fact,
allowed them to take over her life and her subsequent "death" with an
equanimity that spoke of her innate courage rather than any degree of
fear.  This was no small endeavor on her part, she had had to allow
friends and family to believe she was dead.  She'd had to listen to
accounts of her own memorial service.  She'd had to hold herself off
from everything she'd ever known, place her fate in the hands of
strangers.  Yet something in her character, her irresistible demand,
he'd been the one to pull back, to say basic integrity, had carried her
through the whole trauma to her unvoiced plea.  make the time.  And as
a result of that kiss, that mistake, he hadn't al And for John that
glimpse into Kelsey's personality dur- lowed himself to do more than
merely st and beside her ing those two months had been like a peek into
another through the dark days of transition.  She was a case,
nothuniverse He had never met anyone like her, probably never ing more.
A job.  And he was married.  No matter how would again.  She had seemed
like everything decent, hon- poorly that marriage was faring, he'd told
himself he was est and trustworthy that the world could possibly offer.
In- q still wholly committed to it.  He smiled bitterly now, re stead
of hysterics at finding four FBI agents in her living q membering to
whom that commitment had been.  Dayna, room, talking about a contract
on her life, she'd calmly q' who wished he would meet someone who would
break his made them coffee.  She'd even set out a tray of homemade ;
heart.  cookies for them to munch on while they described her , He half
suspected that if he'd hung around Kelsey Winshusband s hiring of a hit
man to end her life.  !  low any longer than was absolutely necessary,
Dayna might Rather than making John feel that she wasn't bright ( well
have gotten her wish.  enough to grasp that her bad-news husband was
trying to John still remembered reading the account of her kill her,
for God's sake-as Charlie had even whispered to ( "death" in the
newspapers.  In an area where violence was John through a mouthful of
chocolate-chip cookie-John daily fare, her story still made juicy stuff
and it had played had instinctively known that the coffee, the cookies,
the q across the front pages like the circulars of the circus com
primly folded hands over crossed elegant legs were the ac- q ing to
town.  According to the reports, Kelsey's Mercury had tions of a woman
who needed something to do, some kind , been found abandoned on a back
road outside Berkeley of activity to mask the roiling fear inside her. 
Springs, Virginia, Type-B positive blood found on the seat, Later, when
he knew her better, he'd seen the telltale signs , the wheel and in
various locations outside the vehicle.  While of her fear more clearly,
the myriad small details that gave ; Kelsey Winslow's body hadn't been
recovered, police had her nervousness away.  Polishing the counter when
she'd found a torn and bloody tennis shoe of the size and style done it
only moments before, brewing another pot of cof- worn by the missing
woman some distance from the car.  Her fee before the first one was
even drained, preparing elabo- grieving husband, nearly hysterical at
the news of the car's rate meals for the men camped out in her home;
she'd done q recovery, had reported her missing days earlier.  His
disthem all, and all were masks.  But occasionally she'd meet his q
fraught account of their blissful marriage brought floods of eyes and
her guard would fall abruptly and he'd see the host sympathy letters
pouring into newspapers.  He cried on tele of terrors she'd been forced
to suffer in the past, the horror vision.  But the final accounts
stated that though the search and embarrassment she was feeling then. 
And he had for Kelsey would be continuing, the police held little hope
longed, in sour vain, to take her into his arms and kiss away for her
being found alive.  the pain, the fear, give her all the solace and
wonder of a The picture of the blood-drenched tennis shoe had lodged
distraction.  And something more than a distraction.  He'd in John's
mind like a grappling hook into sandstone.  And wanted, with everything
in him, to erase that studious even though Kelsey had been sitting
right beside him while courage.  And the one time he had given in to
that urge, that he studied that photograph, and later when they saw it
on

30 Extreme Jccstice Extreme Justice television, always close enough to
feel her body heat, smell the light scent of her clean, lemony perfume,
he'd had the gut-wrenching feeling that he was reading, seeing, the
real thing.  He'd staged the whole shebang-except for that godaqvful
tennis shoe; that had been Charlie's invention but had still suffered
the gnawing feeling they were tempting fate.

He still felt that way.  He could understand the superstitious
orphanage warden who had often said, "Never lie about someone lest you
make it come true.  Never taunt fate lest you want that fate to be
yours."  She had been right, that cold, wise and oftentimes cruel
warden.  They had tempted fate, taunted it, lying as they had about
Kelsey's death.

But the lie had proved effective.  Bill Winslow had driven to Virginia,
and in the lounge of a sleazy motel, met the FBI ringer, Charlie
Fulghum, and coolly pulled out ten thousand dollars of pure blood
money.  He hadn't been so cool when a host of FBI agents stepped out of
the shadows and collared him while Charlie traded him a pair of
handcuffs for the money.  He'd gone off in an elaborate tirade of real
estate deals and would-be shopping centers.  He'd all but sobbed that
it was all a mistake, they had him all wrong.  The first guy he'd
talked to had totally misunderstood.  And he'd been oh, so innocent, so
injured during his trial.  Until he'd seen Kelsey walk in the courtroom
escorted by John and Charlie.  He hadn't been cool then.

John glanced at his watch and saw that despite his rollercoaster ride
down memory lane, it had only been an hour since Charlie called to let
him know Winslow was out and Chandler was back on the case.

It wasn't until he was actually on the road, speeding toward

Washington, D. C. "s National Airport, that he allowed himself to open
that mental file again, remember Kelsey as she had been.  But he fought
the memory o: that one kiss they'd shared, that one glimpse of a
different future , an alternate reality.  He had nev'qr really
forgotten that

3l kiss, it hadn't been possible.  But he had to shove it down ,

lock it up and throw out the key, because it would only interfere with
duty, only get in the way of things he had to do.

Because if he fully studied that moment, held it up to the harsh light
of a three-year, long-delayed scrutiny, he would have to remember her
parting words.  In that harsh light, the words trailed the memory of
the kiss like night following day, like tears following pain. ".Z.hanks
for everything, Agent Chandler.  You'll forgive me if I don't keep in
touch."

Her rich, soft voice had broken on the last word.

He swore as he swung the overnighter from the car.

Chapter 2

Wednesday, November 10 5: 30 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas

Kelsey typed steadily, unaware of the shadows creeping across the
terra-cotta-colored, Saltillo-tiled floor and up the creamy stucco
walls beside her.  She saw only the words on the computer's amber
screen, hearing only the same questions asked over and over at every
support meeting after each seminar.  She had some answers, and she'd
given them out like candies tossed from a float during a Fourth of July
parade.  Some were taken to heart while more were left to melt on the
hot Lubbock asphalt streets, unheeded, un taken

She sat back, scrolling the screen to the beginning of the document,
wishing she didn't feel so angry, hoping that this time she could read
the tips, see the information without that constant companion of rage.
But this time was no different

Recognizing Mr.  Wrong.

She pressed the delete button and eradicated the gerund.  Now it read,
simply, Mr.  Wrong.  She sighed.  She wasn't a writer.  Never would be.
But she wanted a basic handout for the seminars she gave, for the
workshops, even for the Monday-night support-group meetings.  Maybe it
wasn't so much how it was worded that was important, but rather what it
had to say.

She reviewed the elementary list of how to spot a potential

Mr.  Wrong.  She moved a couple of the items to the Secondary

Warning Signals list, and reviewed the list again.  She'd only left ten
danger signals on the screen.  That was enough.  More, and people
wouldn't listen, less and they would spend all their time trying to
come up with more.

She read aloud.  "Number one, he is reluctant to give you a home or
office phone number."  She wondered if she should elaborate now, or
wait to do that until the text portion of her handout.  She decided to
wait.

It was odd that something so basic should have to be cited on a list.
But she hadn't known.  Hadn't wanted to know , perhaps.

She continued.  "Number two, he is vague about his address" She felt
the sneer of self-contempt curve her lips.  Longer ago than she cared
to remember, Bill had told her that he had just moved to town and
didn't really have a permanent address yet.  But he'd had no address at
all.  He'd been living out of his car and his former girlfriend's place
until he'd roped Kelsey in.

"Number three, he uses the telephone all the time and hangs up swiftly
when you enter the room."  She thought about splitting this into two
different "Mr.  Wrong" tips, but shrugged and left it as one.  Either
way, the message was a bad one.  Using the telephone incessantly was a
sure indicator of insecurity if nothing more; hanging up when someone
else entered the room could either indicate an affair or some "deal"
going down.  And a reluctance to talk about the call only underscored
the inappropriate behavior in any case.

She pushed away from the computer, suddenly too angry to continue
editing her list.  These seemed like a first-grader's etiquette rules.
Number one should read: When he hires a hit man to kill you, you can be
fairly certain you've hooked up with the wrong man.

When would it go away, this feeling of having been used, taken and then
abused?  Bill had been sent to prison.  He was locked up.  Gone.  And
she'd been robbed of her life and shunted off to the far ends of the
earth to keep her safe from his wrath.

Surely three years was too long to carry this degree of anger inside
her.  But it was the very anger that sustained her, that allowed her to
sit over a computer, like today, trying to capsulize the essence of her
seminars on avoiding the Bill Winslows of the world.

And it was the anger in her that had allowed her to recognize

Lubbock, Texas, for what it was: a second chance.  It was a thriving,
vital community that demanded she swim or sink in the dust that
occasionally swept in from the plains, a grim reminder of the desert
lying only a few miles outside of that bright oasis.

She had huddled inside a high-rise apartment for the first several
months, regretting the past, fearful of the present and future, afraid
of Lubbock, the friendly people, the store clerks who seemed to always
want to chat or offer a piece of advice.  She'd been frightened of her
new last name, afraid she would hesitate over it, or spell it wrong.
She'd been afraid of the big skies, the dramatic thunderstorms,
frightened of anything and anyone.

And one day she'd woken up and donned the same ratty hnusecoat,
shuffled through the same undecorated, uninspiring apartment and
stopped in front of the bathroom medicine cabinet mirror.  She had
stared at her unwashed face, her long, unstyled, uncombed hair in that
twelve-by Extreme twelve-inch square of glass, and had felt the same
panic she'd suffered every day since finding out Bill wanted her dead.
At that precise moment something inside had snapped.

Ever since that day, she'd striven to be a different Kelsey, a stronger
version of herself, a Kelsey who would never be a victim again, would
never be the kind of dupe that Bill Winslow had drawn in and then, when
he'd used her all up, reduced her self-esteem to rubble, decided to
kill her just because he couldn't bear to see her leave him, or worse,
because she simply stood in his way.  That was the final insult of all
insults, that all she'd represented was some kind of obstacle, a kink
in his plans.

The new Kelsey had been born that morning.

She smiled now, the bittersweet memory tugging at her.  That old Kelsey
seemed like such a stranger.  The housecoat , the apartment, the
tangled blond hair, the nightmares , they were all things of the past.
She'd found a house in the suburban district of Lubbock within that
week, bought it on a two-party real estate contract-so she didn't have
to deal with credit history-with less than a thousand dollars down,
sold it a year later for a healthy profit and used the cash for a down
payment on her present home, taking a second mortgage on it to finance
her small home business.  She'd enrolled in martial arts classes,
weapons training, and had started attending support-group meetings for
abused women.

She'd found a life, had carved one out of virlually nothing , and was
now fully and wholly Kelsey Dobson, self made woman.

Yet, now, three long years after her escape from Bill, after her hard
work at her new life, she could still be hurt, could still feel angry
over the memory of what Bill had put her through, of what she'd
foolishly walked right into, guard down, arms open wide.  And worst of
all, judging by her suddenly trembling fingers, she still wasn't immune
to Bill's presence on this earth.

She drew a couple of deep, steadying breaths, let the last one seep
into her, held it tight and still before releasing it, as though, by
the simple act of breathing out, she was letting go of all the bad
feelings Bill inspired in her.  It was good therapy and better
practice.  Unfortunately, as now, it didn't always work.  She slid open
a sliding glass panel and went outside her back patio doors onto the
broad southwestern veranda, tiled with the same tile as the interior of
the house only rougher, not polished.  It was an extension of the room,
not quite outdoors, open to the elements but protective, as well.

The sharp scent of pine burning in someone's fireplace stung her
nostrils and she realized for the first time that it was late in the
afternoon, nearly nightfall.  And it was winter , though it didn't look
it, didn't particularly feel like it.  The temperature was a mild fifty
degrees and the sky was clear and seemed to stretch upward and outward
into a mauve-shaded infinity.

Her automatic yard lights were already on, the little electric tiki
torches giving off a party atmosphere.  The stillness of the evening,
the torches, the richness of the lawn, still green and taking water,
stretching some forty yards to the evergreen honeysuckle vines that
draped over the high cinder block wall, made her feel oddly peaceful
and restless simultaneously

Anything as large and elegant as that lawn needed sharing , and she had
no one to share it with outside her support group and the selected few
students she trained at home.

Could she have evening workshops?  she wondered, taking in the lines of
her yard, the privacy, the almost sanctuary feel of the place.  Maybe.
But she didn't much desire to have people around the place after dark.
No particular reason , she lied to herself, just that she could never
be quite certain someone hadn't messed with her gate locks, or left one
of the gates open.

But she could use the money.  A voice inside her added, And the
company.  You could sure use the company.  It was difficult to start
life over completely at thirty-three.  She was trying to do everything
alone, constantly aware of the balance in her checking account,
continually afraid she would make an error in judgment over a seminar,
a workshop idea.  Then, as if by dark and evil magic, her fledgling
business would simply vanish, her mortgage would balloon and her hope
of a new life would be buried beneath a flood of bills, recriminations
and I-told-you-so's.  And most of all, while doing all that alone, she
had to keep ever vigilant, ever ready for another confrontation with
Bill Winslow, because one day soon he would be out, released.  Every
time she turned on the television she was reminded of this unpleasant
fact.

She sighed, feeling resentful of anything and everything, but most of
all resentful of the fact that not being vigilant meant her very
life.

Unfortunately, all the vigilance and worry in the world didn't do much
in the way of keeping her company.  And when had she started missing
it?  Only recently.  Before, she'd needed the confines of the Witness
Protection Program, the forced seclusion.  She'd needed the barriers
that restricted her from active involvement in a community.  She'd
needed the time to heal, to regroup, to find herself again.

The women in her support network were nice enough, even eager to share
time with her.  But somehow that wasn't enough.  Recently,
occasionally, she found that she wanted to play a board game with a
male instead of a female, craved hearing a deep rumble of laughter,
wanted to tuck her hand in someone else's, to warm her chilly toes
against the warm calf of a warmer man.  These thoughts were almost
shocking to her, for nothing in her life had ever been like that. She'd
married Bill almost fresh out of college, a complete ingenue.  An utter
fool.  And she'd spent the next ten years with him, having him prove
that marriage was a nightmare instead of a promise.

But tonight, the fantasy tugged at her, insinuated itself into her
thoughts, into her body.  Tonight, she achingly wanted some male
companionship.  The stars were sharp and brilliant as they appeared
suddenly in the upper sky, tempting and dazzling, making her want to
stare up at them and wish, wish deeply and surely, wish with everything
she had inside her.  But what was the use in wishing?  Dreams didn't
come true unless you made them do so.  And companionship came with too
many strings.  As a friend in her support group said, and as she knew
all too well, there were much worse things than loneliness.

That was true.  Kelsey knew it was true.  And yet, it didn't feel all
too absolutely right at the moment.  Right now it seemed damned
ridiculous, because sometimes there simply weren't worse things than
loneliness.  Sometimes loneliness was all there was.

She hadn't been on a date in what seemed like a million years.  Not
since she'd met Bill thirteen years ago, and even then, they hadn't
really dated, he'd engulfed her in his bizarre fashion, taken her by
overwhelming compulsion.  She had almost accepted a couple of arranged
evenings through members of her support group, but somehow, when the
time came to follow through on the dates, she'd been unable to face a
stranger across a table, whirl around some dance floor in the arms of
someone who could turn out to be another Bill.

And she had an added factor she couldn't talk about , didn't even tell
her support group about.  For all that she was working to put her life
in order, to take control of every aspect of daily living, she was
constantly aware she was living a lie.

Her last name was legally hers, but she had neither been born with it
nor married into it.  Her records all showed her having been born in
Pennsylvania; she hadn't been, she was born in Bethesda, Maryland.  Her
social security number was different, her college records were
completely changed, though no one had thought to raise her grade-point
average And she had one notarized document most people never saw: her
death certificate.

She could talk about Mr.  Wrong, but wasn't she the female equivalent?
Mr.  Wrong lied about everything..  nothing about her was the truth,
not her name, her past, her records.  Just her anger was real and bone
deep.

Maybe it was that anger, the desire for the lies to be over, that
sparked the loneliness in her tonight, making her restless in a way she
hadn't felt for years, maybe hadn't ever really analyzed before.

Or maybe it was seeing the recent news accounts.  A similar story to
hers-a man trying to hire someone to kill his wife-had come out in the
press only a few months ago.  And now, according to the hungry
reporters, apparently Bill was soon to be released.  Naturally, they
had paraded the whole sordid story across the screen, speculating on
his motive, on his rehabilitation, and most of all, on her
whereabouts.

Luckily she remained in hiding, no one had found her yet.  But instead
of pleasing her, this made her vaguely apprehensive It gave her the
feeling of living in the dark, a victim in the shadows.

Two nights ago had been the worst.  National media announcers , on one
of those in-depth reporting programs, had recapitulated what they had
dubbed the Winslow Affair and, apparently totally unaware they were
jeopardizing her whole life, had flashed three-year-old pictures of her
on nationwide television.  She hadn't been as firm and trim then, and
she'd still been a blonde.  But it didn't take a rocket scientist to
see the resemblance.  Several of her support group had called to
comment on the uncanny coincidence of her having the same first name,
remarkably similar features.

with him, having him prove that marriage was a nightmare instead of a
promise.

But tonight, the fantasy tugged at her, insinuated itself into her
thoughts, into her body.  Tonight, she achingly watlted some male
companionship.  The stars were sharp and brilliant as they appeared
suddenly in the upper sky, tempting and dazzling, making her want to
stare up at them and wish, wish deeply and surely, wish with everything
she had inside her.  But what was the use in wishing?  Dreams didn't
come true unless you made them do so.  And companionship came with too
many strings.  As a friend in her support group said, and as she knew
all too well, there were much worse things than loneliness.

That was true.  Kelsey knew it was true.  And yet, it didn't feel all
too absolutely right at the moment.  Right now it seemed damned
ridiculous, because sometimes there simply weren't worse things than
loneliness.  Sometimes loneliness was all there was.

She hadn't been orl a date in what seemed like a million years.  Not
since she'd met Bill thirteen years ago, and even then, they hadn't
really dated, he'd engulfed her in his bizarre fashion, taken her by
overwhelming compulsion.  She had almost accepted a couple of arranged
evenings through members of her support group, but somehow, when the
time came to follow through on the dates, she'd been unable to face a
stranger across a table, whirl around some dance floor in the arms of
someone who could turn out to be another Bill.

And she had an added factor she couldn't talk about , didn't even tell
her support group about.  For all that she was working to put her life
in order, to take control of every aspect of daily living, she was
constantly aware she was living a lie.

Her last name was legally hers, but she had neither been born with it
nor married into it.  Her records all showed her having been born in
Pennsylvania; she hadn't been, she was born in Bethesda, Maryland.  Her
social security number was different, her college records were
completely changed, though no one had thought to raise her grade-point
average And she had one notarized document most people never saw: her
death certificate.

She could talk about Mr.  Wrong, but wasn't she the female equivalent?
Mr.  Wrong lied about everything..  nothing about her was the truth,
not her name, her past, her records.  Just her anger was real and bone
deep.

Maybe it was that anger, the desire for the lies to be over, that
sparked the loneliness in her tonight, making her restless in a way she
hadn't felt for years, maybe hadn't ever really analyzed before.

Or maybe it was seeing the recent news accounts.  A similar story to
hers-a man trying to hire someone to kill his wife-had come out in the
press only a few months ago.  And now, according to the hungry
reporters, apparently Bill was soon to be released.  Naturally, they
had paraded the whole sordid story across the screen, speculating on
his motive, on his rehabilitation, and most of all, on her
whereabouts.

Luckily she remained in hiding, no one had found her yet.  But instead
of pleasing her, this made her vaguely apprehensive It gave her the
feeling of living in the dark, a victim in the shadows.

Two nights ago had been the worst.  National media announcers , on one
of those in-depth reporting programs, had recapitulated what they had
dubbed the Winslow Affair and, apparently totally unaware they were
jeopardizing her whole life, had flashed three-year-old pictures of her
on nationwide television.  She hadn't been as firm and trim then, and
she'd still been a blonde.  But it didn't take a rocket scientist to
see the resemblance.  Several of her support group had called to
comment on the uncanny coincidence of her having the same first name,
remarkably similar features.

She'd become almost afraid to leave the house, reluctant to answer the
telephone.

As if sensing her discomfort, the phone rang.  Kelsey started, even
felt for her ever-present .  38 automatic at her side.  She released an
exasperated puff of disgust as she dropped her hand and went to the
wall phone in the kitchen.  She lifted it while pushing the sliding
door closed again.  She hesitated before saying hello.  Her voice made
the single word a question instead of a greeting.  " " Kelsey?  "

"Yes, Jilly."  Just what she didn't want or need right now.  There
seemed to be one like Jilly in every group, a clinging vine that joined
support groups less for survival techniques than for the thrill of
being included, a person who thrived on the dirt and details of
another's life.  A person whose life was so incomplete she had to
become over-involved in everyone else's just to believe she existed.

Unknowingly-or perhaps to stir the pot of some unknown contention-but
striking pure fear into Kelsey nonetheless, Jilly immediately launched
into an account of a talk show program she'd watched yesterday.

"It was all about women doing courageous things, like helping save
children from their evil fathers.  You should have seen it.  They were
talking all about the Winslow Affair It gave me chills, and I really
mean it."

"Really?"  Kelsey asked, though it felt more forced than natural.

"Oh, Kelsey, it just broke my heart when I saw the picture they showed.
It was a different one than the one they usually show on the news.  I
mean, I recognized you right off."

Dear God, Kelsey thought.  "What do you mean, Jilly?"  she asked.  Her
voice was as cold as her insides.

"Why, Kelsey, you don't have to keep it a secret from me.  I'm one of
your biggest fans.  I mean, to have suffered what you did and to still
want to help others.  I mean, you're just terrific."

Terrified was a lot closer to the truth.  "I'm afraid you've got the
wrong idea"

Jilly tittered.  There was simply no other word for that grating sound.
"Now, now, Kelsey.  I may be a lot of things , but my momma never
raised any idiots.  It's you, all right.  That's what I told them,
too."

Kelsey felt as though she'd stepped into an elevator on the tenth level
only to discover there was no floor.  " " You what?  "

"Oh, I didn't give you away, don't you go worrying about that.  I mean,
if you're hiding out, it's your business, isn't it?"

"What did you say?"

"There, you see?  I just knew it.  I knew I was right.  I told them you
were great, I mean, I said I knew this woman named Kelsey, and wasn't
it a coincidence?  You know, confusing them.  But, anyway, I said you
weren't a victim anymore You were teaching other women how to stand up
for themselves.  And I could tell they were impressed."

Oh, God.  What had Jilly done?  " " And I told them you had learned it
all yourself.  Taught yourself, I mean.  I told them how you taught me
so much, how I learned not to be a victim, either.  "

Kelsey drew a shallow breath; it was all her compressed lungs would
allow.  "That's amazing, Jilly.  Did you happen to tell them where you
live?"

"No, no, Kelsey.  I told you, I was clever.  I mean, I'd never do
anything to hurt you.  I just said I knew this woman in Texas"

Kelsey couldn't hold in a groan.

"Oh, dear.  Wasn't that okay?  I mean, Texas is the largest state in
the union.  Except for Alaska... or is Texas bigger ?  I don't really
know, do you?"

"Alaska's bigger," Kelsey said dully.

"Well, I wish you'd seen it, honey.  You'd have been so proud of me.  I
mean, having the courage to actually call up Laurie Winters and talk to
her on the phone in front of all those people."

"Yeah," Kelsey managed to get out.

"Did I interrupt something?  Were you eating or anything ?"

"Eating ... yes.  I was just sitting down," Kelsey said.  Her heart was
pounding so loudly she was half-afraid Jilly would hear it over the
telephone.

"Well, gotta run myself.  I'll tell you what, I'll call you later."

"No," Kelsey blurted out before she could think.

"No?"

" " Tomorrow would be better, Jilly.  I'm feeling a little under the
weather.  I'm just going to bed.  "

"Well, of course.  I mean, with all you must be going through..."

"I'm not... going... through..  anything, Jilly," Kelsey ground out
through iron-clenched teeth.  "You've made some amazing suppositions,
but I have to tell you that-"

"Whoops, there's the doorbell.  Gotta run, honey.  Call you tomorrow,
okay?  Bye-bye, now.  Take care."

Kelsey still had the phone to her ear, her mouth pursed to protest
Jilly's all-too-accurate discoverv.  when she heard the sharp click of
the receiver, the loud, nasal hum of the dial tone.

She replaced the receiver automatically, but didnqt take her hand from
it.  As they said in Texas, her goose was good and cooked

Wednesday, November 10 7:30p.  m. " Berkeley Springs, West Virginia

Bill walked into the hotel lobby and looked around.  The hotel clerk
glanced up in curiously and back down to what Extreme ever he'd been
doing.  Too many tourists passed through Berkeley Springs to evince
much interest, even at this evening hour in an off-season.

He crossed the lobby and took a seat against the far wall just beneath
some plaque or other commemorating the brick as the same brick that
George Washington had touched after taking a bath in the spa outside.
George could have it, he thought, though the notion of a bath wasn't a
bad one.  Maybe he'd spring for one of the spa treatments himself.
Later.

Now he just wanted to sit in this comfortable chair, let his hands play
with the thick wad of cash in his pocket, and watch the front doors. He
didn't have to watch long.  It wasn't ten minutes before a young couple
came in the front door, arm in arm, giggly and acting as though they'd
just gotten married five minutes earlier.  He smiled, even nodded at
them as they passed him on their noisy way to the front desk.

The FBI was brighter than the guys in Hollywood made them look, he
thought.  But not bright enough.  He'd seen the guy out in the car not
ten minutes ago, hand wrapped around a cellular telephone.  The girl
had been sitting on a park bench, little makeup mirror in one hand,
lipstick in the other.  And eyes on anything but her image.

He rose slowly to his feet, gave a little stretch and deliberately
crossed right in front of them to approach the desk clerk.  He asked
for a room.  Signed for it in his own name, enjoying the game.  Loving
the game.

He asked the desk clerk about the hours at the spa.  Since this was
off-season, the clerk told him-and the eavesdropping newlyweds-he could
get in anytime, but he'd better hurry, they folded up shop at nine.

"I think I'll try it now," he said, and sauntered off in the direction
the clerk had pointed.  It was out the back door of the hotel and
around an elaborate series of corners and steps.

He chose the roman tub for two reasons, it was larger and he hadn't had
anything like that kind of space in a tub for three long years, and
because it was quiet.  No jets, no bubbles , just silent, silent water.
He could hear every single thqing that happened in that whole spa. And
he didn't have to listen long before the young man was ushered in and
pretty soon being escorted to a tub just beyond his.

He smiled, and silently slipped from the water.  Like a shadow, he
curved around the corner of the hallway and into the change room.  He
had what he needed in less than a minute, transferred it to his own
things, and was back into the water before his timer went off,
signaling the spa attendant

He endured a massage, though he hated being touched so intimately.  He
even talked to the young man when he came out of the tub and onto a
table nearby.  Yes, they'd married only that morning, the young man
said.  He even held out his hand to show the wedding ring on his left
hand.  And he waggled his fingers saying he still wasn't used to it
being there.  The hell he wasn't.  He had a tan line revealing the ring
had been there a good long time.

Having seen enough, Bill pushed from the table and didn't tip the
masseuse.  Though after his ride with the salesman he had plenty of
operating capital, he'd never see this particular sadist again.  He
whistled as he dressed and continued the country-and-western tune as he
left the spa facilities with the young man's clothing.

He felt good.  He felt clean, fresh, and his mind seemed to be racing
in swift, light harmony.

It only took a few seconds to find the honeymooner's room.  He'd simply
told the desk clerk that the young man had asked him to take his things
to the young lady and to have her gather other clothing for him to take
back to him.  As pure luck would have it, she answered the door
incautiously

Using the FBI agent's gun-a nice touch, if he did say so himself-he
asked the would-be bride to strip, enjoying a few seconds of
frightening her, and tied her to the bathroom door.  He took her
clothes, as well.  It wouldn't stop them.  It wouldn't even slow them
down for long.  But he didn't need very long.  Just a few minutes would
do.

Yes, he was enjoying the game enormously.

He tossed their clothes out a window at the end of the long upstairs
hallway.  It would take a while to find them in all that shrubbery
below.  Especially in the dark.  He chuckled

Then, using a thin wire he'd taken from the salesman's trunk, he pried
the lock of a room some doors down.  He stretched out on the double bed
and lay back, his hands folded behind his head.

He had only to wait.

And then he could begin his quest.

He smiled, thinking about Kelsey.  It won't be long now, sweetheart, he
promised.  And then you'll get everything you deserve.

Wednesday, November 10 7. q30 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas ps the plane was
circling over the golden tiara that made up Lubbock at night, the
stewardess leaned over John's seat and handed him a folded message.  "
" This came through a minute ago," she said.  " You're to call this
number as soon as you land.  Unfortunately, we don't have in-plane
communications ," she added with a smile of apology.

John thanked her absently, flipping the paper open and reading the
phone number as though it would reveal a clue as to the reason for the
call.  His orders were to go straight to Kelsey Winslow-Dobson-and
remove her to a safe I house.  Simple, straightforward.  Easy.

A message at this stage of the plan could only mean one thing:
something was wrong.

John cursed the interminable time it seemed to take for the plane to
finally touch down.  He felt helpless up there in the dark sky, unable
to do anything but wait.

What could be wrong?

Wednesday, November 10 8: 30 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas

Kelsey had already done her evening exercises, using them to work off
the tension instead of pacing.  In the few hours since Jilly had
called, she had come to the inevitable conclusion that there wasn't a
single thing she could do about Jilly's mistake now.  With a survivor's
fatalistic realism she had decided that what was done was in the past,
that the only things worth worrying about were the present and the
future.

But what if Bill had seen that program?  And, like her socalled friend,
put two and two together?

She had toyed with the idea of calling her case worker in Dallas, but
had shaken that notion.  If there was anything wrong, they'd be calling
her.  If she had anything to worry about, really worry about, they'd
contact her.

Besides, she thought, Bill wasn't even a television watcher.  He
preferred to get his kicks out of his "deals," his scams, his
destruction of other human beings.  No, she was safe.  As protected as
anyone living a perpetual lie can ever be so considered.

For just a moment, a wild, totally crazy moment, she wished he actually
would appear on her doorstep.  That the continual running would finally
be over and done with, finished.  A classic showdown..  him or her..
once and for all, period, finis.

For this time around, Bill would have a few surprises in store for him.
Kelsey wasn't the same scaredy-cat she'd been three years ago.  He'd
taught her the very valuable lesson of strength.  Bill, who deemed her
life valueless, and the judges who rated her life span at a mere three
years, had conspired to create a strong Kelsey.  Together they had
forced her to change her life, her dreams, her plans.

Her life, as she had known it then, was truly over.  Bill, for all that
he might not know it, had succeeded in killing her.  She'd left the
house in Maryland, the house where she'd been raised; she'd left her
job as an aerobics instructorq , she'd left herself behind.  All
because she had known that a three-year sentence wouldn't even slow
Bill down.  He wasn't the kind of man who would take an indictment and
sentencing as a judgment on his behavior.  He would only see that he'd
have to bide his time to accomplish his initial goal.

She suffered no illusions.  Bill Winslow was crazy.  The
court-appointed psychologists may have encountered a few sociopathic
tendencies, but Kelsey knew they hadn't even scratched the surface of
Bill's personality.  He had charmed them with his seeming remorse.  She
knew what they didn't: Bill Winslow didn't understand the meaning of
the word.

And she knew that if he had the slightest clue where she was, nothing
on earth would stop him from coming after her, and most likely, anyone
who'd had anything to do with the sting operation that had pulled him
into the open and behind bars.  If he had the vaguest clue where she
was hiding , it would only be a matter of days before he showed up,
this time to do the job himself.  That was the way he was.  Once
foiled, twice determined.

Luckily, three years ago, the FBI had listened to her.  John Chandler,
in particular, had believed what she'd said about Bill Winslow.  He had
arranged to have her slipped into the Witness Protection Program and
quietly shipped out of the East.  She certainly hadn't wanted to thank
him at the time.  She felt he was simply, conveniently, tucking her as
far away from him as was humanly possible.

She tried shifting her thoughts to something else, anything other than
that time three years ago.  But it was hopeless Once on that track, her
mind couldn't seem to shift grooves.  Her life might be different,
everything about her might be altered, but some things simply didn't
change.  Her thoughts about the justice system, for one; Bill Winslow,
for another.  And John Chandler; she was still as confused about him as
ever.

Like Bill, if John Chandler could see her now, he would be in for a big
surprise.  She was nearly as much a professional as he.  She had long
ago decided she needed to know what to do in any situation to protect
herself.

And she'd spent the past three years learning how to do just that.  The
Kelsey of yesteryear was a rounder, tearstained , blond version of the
present-day Kelsey.  Then, she'd have been hard-pressed to change a
tire in less than an hour.  Now, there was little she couldn't tackle.
Then, she'd shrunk behind the very broad shoulders of FBI agent John
Chandler when they'd heard a noise outside.  Now, she held a black belt
in karate, a brown in jujitsu and had even studied

Korean kick-boxing.  She had a personal arsenal of four perfectly timed
weapons, and held an expert marksman's certificate to use each of them.
Her home was as secure as any home could be with double dead-bolt
locks, cinder block walls and automatic lighting.  Even her business
had to do with protection, teaching others how to do the same.

But she was the only person who would ever see those differences, the
insecure Kelsey Winslow turned capable Kelsey Dobson.  So John Chandler
wouldn't be able to see the changes, wouldn't have another opportunity
to hightail it out of her life.  That notion should have pleased her,
but didn't; it gave her a strangely hollow feeling deep inside.

Unconsciously, she raised her hand to her lips and pressed them,
molding them to the grooves between her fingers while her mind recalled
the one time John had kissed her.  He had kissed her as though there
was no day going to dawn the next morning, as though it was the
farewell of an entire lifetime.

The doorbell rang and Kelsey dropped her hand guiltily, as if she'd
been caught with her phantom, with a memory now three years old and
surely sepia toned with time and imperfect recall.

With Jilly's revelation on her mind, the recent news accounts clamoring
in her heart, she lightly raced across the Saltillo-tiled hallway,
pausing only to release the safety of her .  38 automatic, but leaving
it in her belt holster.  She pushed the doors of her highboy closed,
hiding the computer center, not from any particular fear it might be
harmed, but more from sheer habit of maintaining strict routine.

She crossed the broad foyer and cautiously stepped out the front door
into the eastern interior courtyard and slowly covered the some thirty
feet to the exterior gate.  She flipped the catch on the little wooden
window inset in the huge wooden gate recessed in the ten-feet high
adobe walls.  She slowly pulled it inward and drew her gun.  She held
it at the ready as she stepped into the frame the small window
created

Light spilled outward, highlighting the man on the other side.

Kelsey actually felt the blood draining from her face.  opening stood
in the rough center of the walls surrounding the place, but John didn't
think it led inside the house, merely into another yard.  Like
everything else, it was more appearance than reality; it, like the
house itself, was a door within a door, a cell within a cell.  It was a
rabbit warren of a home, self-protective.

And it was a far cry from Kelsey's redbrick Colonial in

Bethesda with its little window boxes filled with winter ; flowers,
holly, poinsettia, and on the inside, herbs and pansies.  The effect of
that house had been orderly, sweet, even a little prim.  Like Kelsey.

Would the woman be as altered as her surroundings?

While he'd been waiting for someone-Kelsey?to an Chapter3 = q swer his
ring, he had tried thinking what he would say to her.  Seeing him would
be shock enough; hearing he was once again assigned to her might really
frighten her.  And John Chandler tensed as the little window in the
huge bar- hearing his news would scare the living daylights out of ri
cade of a gate slowly swung open.  He felt an agent's ata- anyone, let
alone Kelsey.  vis the fear of that narrow aperture.  It conjured too
many He could all too easily remember her wide blue eyes, the faint
shadows beneath them, the look of a woman pushed memories of movie
scenes where the bad guys shot through " too far, pressed against the
proverbial wall.  Yes, he would just such an opening, firing first,
asking questions later.  have to tread carefully.  The window was like
everything else about this new residence of Kelsey's-different.  Her
Texas home seemed to He d have to be careful for other reasons, too, he
thought sprawl across the huge corner lot, a seeming Spanish villa,
grqly.  Reasons entirely personal.  Her very helplessness, her complete
with whitewashed walls, thick, red ceramic tiles dependency had once
acted on him like the strongest of stretching upward to form a sloping
roofline, arched en- aphrodisiacs.  And simple want all too often
became equated tries barricaded by thick wooden gates, tall,
age-thickened with need.  cacti and other spiny succulents sending
spiking tendrils to- Now the window was fully open, showing him a
glimpse ward windows, clay gutters and unsuspecting intruders.  The of
the spacious, Spanish-style home beyond an interior entire place was
surrounded by tall, thick, uneven adobe garden of some kind.  But no
one stood there.  For a split walls, hand-swirled with a creamy white
stucco.  The effect second, John felt as if he'd rung the doorbell of a
ghost.  was one of Southwestern luxury, of serenity and abject pri- !
Was he too late?  vacy.  It was also as forbidding a place as John had
ever seen.  He couldn't help the tension that gripped his shoulders
Heavy wrought-iron bars covered every window visible on i and seized
his back as a shadow crossed the lighted aper the second floor.  The
huge wooden gate with its miniature picture and the silhouette of a
woman's face appeared.

She stepped back a pace at seeing him there, and the light fell on her
features, touching her suddenly wide eyes, her parted lips, and
creating a blue-black halo of her hair.

Kelsey.  Just as he remembered her.  Oh, yes, he'd have to tread very
carefully, indeed.

She stood there for the longest time, neither moving nor speaking. John
couldn't have spoken, either; his breath felt trapped in his lungs, his
heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Kelsey.  Until he was actually seeing her again, he realized he hadn't
given total consideration to how he might feel at being in her
presence.  He knew now.  Confused.  Nobody should have the kind of
chemistry that made another's body go nuts.  But Kelsey did.

John had envisioned ringing the doorbell tucked in the hand-swirled
mass of creamy stucco, had even imagined feeling the rough plaster
scratch at his fingertips.  He had tried picturing Kelsey as she might
be today, tonight.  But now, facing her through the narrow window in a
heavy gate, inches away but separated by a three-year absence, John
could only stand there, hands loose at his sides as though ready for a
fight.

He saw her eyes widen even more in recognition and flinched slightly as
he read the measure of her surprise, her profound shock at seeing him
again.

"Oh, God," she said.

He nodded and forced an apologetic smile to his frozen lips.  He'd seen
her understanding of why he was there flash across her features like a
brushfire.  She'd realized instantaneously that this was no
three-year-delayed social call.  " " Hello, Kelsey, " he said.

"John Chandler," she murmured.  His name on her lips wasn't a question,
it was a breathless statement of truth.  He couldn't glean any more
from her voice than simple acknowledgment of who he was.

"Can I come in?"  he asked.  Even to himself, his voice sounded hoarse,
rough with a thousand conflicting, contradictory emotions.  And harsh
with pity.

They had named each other now, he thought.  He felt a vague relaxation
work through his shoulders; naming was the most basic of human
interaction.  I know you, you know me, now we can communicate.  It was
the first thing given to a child, the last thing etched on the
gravestone.  The initial hurdle was over.

For a moment she did nothing more than stare at him as if he were the
ghost.  Perhaps he was, he thought; a ghost of a memory from her past.
Then, startling him, she slowly closed the little window in the gate,
cutting the light, shutting him out.

For some reason the sheer finality of that closure made John smile. She
hadn't slapped his face or pretended she hadn't recognized him. She'd
named him, then calmly shut the little window, leaving the bigger gate
closed, shutting him out, effectively putting him outside her life.

"We've got to talk, Kelsey," he called, knowing instinctively that she
was still there, just on the other side of that monstrosity of a
gate.

She didn't answer and John was reaching for the doorbell again when he
heard the catch on the gate; a raspy, metal-on-metal sound of a heavy
dead-bolt release.  The large door swung slowly inward while the light
crept into the dark, forming a pool of gold at his feet.

Kelsey stood beyond the door's swing, facing him, legs slightly spread,
her hands on her hips, her body blocking the light, creating a
silhouette of her lithe frame.  Whatever she was wearing was so
skintight it made her appear nude in that light.  Nude, that was,
except for the holster on her hip and the weapon tucked neatly inside
it.

She was the very image of a warrior, something out of a Frazetta
fantasy painting, all curves, muscles and weapon.  John realized now
that her dark halo of hair hadn't been a trick of the light, she had
jet black hair, loosely drawn up to q But surely Bill's release
wouldn't occasion an FBI agent a ponytail, so long it snaked around one
shoulder.  All Kel- ringing her doorbell?  Unless.  Bill had some
notion of her sey needed to complete the image of one of Frazetta's vi
whereabouts.  And she knew the answer to that one, also.  By brant
fantasy paintings would be a saber-toothed tiger at her q some stroke
of the most evil luck, he'd seen or heard about side, or a dragon
lurking in her backyard.  q that damned television program Jilly had
called about.  Oh, yeah, he thought.  Kelsey had changed.  q And Bill's
having seen it would only mean one thing: he'd But then he could see
the quick rise and fall of her chest, q be after her.  the tense
shoulders.  Kelsey squared her shoulders.  She again resolved not to "I
didn't think I'd ever see you again," she said, her sul- dwell on any
regretful aspects of that interview.  What was try contralto voice no
longer at variance with her appear- q done, was done.  Now she had to
face John Chandler and ance.  Always before, that rich voice had seemed
somewhat wasn't sure how she felt about the prospect.  There was too
out of place with her sweet, frightened features, Dresden qq much
between them and far too little.  And all of it was hair and eyes.  But
this dark shadow packing a gun, legs q wrapped up in the package
bearing Bill Winslow's name and askance, shoulders back and rigid, had
to have a voice that !  deeds.  She couldn't think of John Chandler
without remade a man want to fall to his knees.  membering the entire
ordeal three years ago.  And she Somehow he managed to step across the
gate threshold.  couldn't separate him from the anger that still boiled
inside But he did so with the very real feeling that he was the will- j
her.  And still couldn't quite forgive him for one kiss at a ing fly
following a siren black widow.  q vulnerable moment, nor the
unforgivable regret she'd j glimpsed in his eyes afterward.  Kelsey was
reeling.  For one wild moment, seeing John ) She led him into her
house, walking slowly and steadily, Chandler standing there on her
doorstep, she'd had the sharpest feeling that he'd come there just to
see her.  three q but feeling dazed and nervous.  She couldn't think of
what years and he appears on a night when she'd stood outside to say to
him, and he didn't help her at all, merely followed wishing on the
millions of stars in the Texas sky.  q her silently.  He still moved as
quietly as a cat, as lithely as a

I gymnast.  But a measure of pity, a certain hard set to his jaw, a
faint He stopped when she did, and she found she couldn't glint of
steel in his gaze stole this piercing wish even as it ( mqt his eyes.
He looked away, surveying her living quarflashed across her mind.  She
knew instinctively that it was no coincidence that John Chandler had
shown up on her , doorstep.  He'd obviously come on official business. 
And She had thought she remembered everything about John knowing this,
she knew what that business was.  Bill must Chandler, from his warm
eyes to his hard, flat stomach and have been released. narrow, tapered
hips.  She watched him as he stood per And her life was in danger
again.  fectly still, eyes taking in everything, studying her living
Unbidden came the phrase, It's show time.  And with that I room, her
kitchen, her Southwestern-style dining table, as thought came the fear.
Three years of training, of building !  though he were inventorying it
for the Bureau.  And she disher strength, of safeguarding her life, and
a face out of her ; covered she'd forgotten all the essential elements
that made past immediately throws her into chaos.  up John Chandler. 
;

His eyes were still brown, the color of Kentucky bourbon , and fine
laugh lines still fanned out from them.  His hair was the same
raw-honey brown, and if there was any gray there, it didn't show.  He'd
be forty now, but was the same fighting trim, the same early thirties
hard.  His lips were still full and firm looking, though she knew them
to be as soft and pliant as a fresh rose just beginning to bloom.  He
was as tall and muscled as ever.  But it was none of those things that
had eluded her memory.  It was the way he made her stomach knot in hot
anxiety.  It was the way he made her hands shake, her loins ache.

Her memory had carefully stored every feature, every detail of John
Chandler, but had, perhaps equally carefully , erased the impact he had
on her.  She had to deliberately turn her back on him, find something
to do at the kitchen bar counter.  She didn't want to feel such things
for anyone, and John Chandler in particular.  He'd made it all too
clear three years ago where she stood with him and that was somewhere
out in the cold.  That was fine with her.  That's exactly where she
wanted him to be, too.  Now.

If only he didn't make her feel anything but cold.  " " Why are you
here?  " she asked finally, even though she had no doubts as to his
reason.  But the silence between them was fraught with too few
memories, too many possibilities.

"Your ex-husband's out," he said.

She'd known what he was going to say, had even tensed in anticipation,
but his speaking the words aloud, the words she'd dreaded thinking
about for the past three years, still managed to make her flinch.

She turned around to face John, needing to see him, needing to see the
truth in his eyes.  She knew he wasn't lying , yet everything in her
wanted to scream a denial.

"It's too early," she said.

A bitter smile crooked one side of his lips.  His eyes met hers
directly, unwaveringly.  "Good behavior," he said.

An answering bitterness made her own lips curl, but she didn't think it
would resemble a smile.  "Only Bill."

"I've been assigned to your case," he said.  "We've got a safe house
lined up."

She met his gaze squarely, searching for anything that would give her a
clue as to what his assignment might entail She could read his
confusion, his disturbed reaction to the changes in her, and saw him
trying to fuse the old Kelsey with the new.  He might as well give it
up, she thought, not without bitterness.  That Kelsey was long gone.

She slowly turned back around, unable to continue to watch his search.
Unable to look into his eyes and see herself as he wanted to see her,
the frail, poor little Kelsey, all alone, so helpless.  But all
questions were answered now.  John Chandler was once again assigned to
be her nursemaid , to be her faceless knight in shining armor, prepared
to tilt his sword, tip his helmet and slay her dragon.  And then he
would ride away into some rosy sunset, never giving her another
thought.

She'd be damned if he would.  She was perfectly capable of slaying her
own dragons, thank you very much.  She didn't stop to think if she was
angry over his coming to protect her, or his inevitable abandonment.
She wouldn't have cared to analyze it.  She'd been down the path of
that particular fantasy once already; she wasn't about to go through it
again.

"I'm perfectly fine," she said through clenched teeth.  She tried
seeing it from his perspective.  Tried thinking of him as a kind,
gentle soul who cared only for her safety, but she couldn't.  She could
only think of his being assigned to protect her; she could only see
herself as an object needing a week or two of special care.

She remembered the cold light in his eyes the morning after he'd kissed
her.  She remembered, all too well, his stark admission that he was
married, the fingers all but digging into her arms.  And she remembered
his distance, his wary stance whenever she walked into a room after
that.  And she remembered, as though it were yesterday, his answer to
her question of why he hadn't told her before that he was married' It
should never have happened.  "

He was right, it shouldn't have.  And it never would again.  She had
been crying when he'd kissed her, she remembered that also, and
recalled more tears after that.  But her tears had dried long ago,
about the time the old Kelsey had died.  She had her anger to see her
through now.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said slowly, not looking at him. Although
her voice was adamant, she couldn't help a rather forlorn wish that
John would somehow manage to defuse the anger that sustained her, that
he would somehow whisk her away, catch Bill, and with a wave of some
magic wand, set her life to rights again once and forever.

But like the old Kelsey, Cinderella daydreams of someone "taking her
away from all this" were long dead.  Her life now was one forged in the
fires of pure survival, the hard world of bills, mortgage payments and
anger.

"Kelsey-" John began, a combined note of patronizing patience and
exasperation.

"I'm not running," she interrupted.  When she'd decided that, she
couldn't have said.  It might have been when she realized he was still
looking at her as if she were some poor little thing who couldn't fend
for herself, or it might have happened that first earned belt in
karate, or earlier, the day she'd really looked at her haggard, dull
face in the bathroom mirror of a bleak apartment and known she couldn't
go on that way.

"You don't have much choice," he said.

She turned at that and smiled somewhat bitterly.  "You're wrong, John.
I have all the choice in the whole world."

He frowned heavily.  "look, Winslow might have pulled a good-behavior
release, but he's no picnic.  He told one of his cellmates he was
coming after you."  qIsey felt a chill work down her back.  If the FBI,
namely

John Chandler, hadn't stepped in three years ago, Bill

Winslow would have succeeded in his attempt on her life.

And now that same rescuer was back, and again telling her she couldn't
manage things by herself, that she needed him, that her life wasn't
worth the proverbial plug nickel.

She withheld a shudder of revulsion and hardened her heart against the
notion of John Chandler being able to rescue her.  It wouldn't do to
start relying on somebody else at this time, or anytime.  She had
first-hand experience in the futility of trust, the frustration and
pain of watching that trust erode.

"There's no argument about this, Kelsey.  I have my orders So do you "
"I " Only if I choose to remain in the program," she said.

She felt more resolve now.  She knew she had to do this.  She qI
couldn't bear the thought of running away again.  She'd come too far,
with too much of her heart vested in the attempt Running now would make
her a victim once again.

"No," she said, and meant everything the negative could imply.

"You're in, and so far as we can, we're going to make sure you're
safe."

Duty.  That was all she meant to him.  All she'd ever meant.  She'd
known that, had accepted it years ago, but hearing it implied
all-over-again hurt just the same.

"Well, you've told me," she said coldly.  I "pnd I can turn around and
go straight to hell, is that it?"  he asked, and grinned.  But it
wasn't a lighthearted gesture and he didn't so much as move a muscle
toward the door.  j She had to smile at his more than accurate
assessment of her words, but it was a faint attempt at best. "Something
like that," she answered levelly.

"Have you gone suicidal on me?"  His tone was one of friendly, even
casual interest, and belied the import of the words.

How could she have forgotten that John Chandler didn't have much use
for tact?  Instead of angering her, his stark question steadied her. "I
haven't gone anything on you "

He looked at her for a long, utterly still moment, and she could see
him assimilating the implications of her emphasis on the pronoun.  He
said quietly, "Winslow's already shaken two sets of tails today.  So,
if you'll please go pack a bag, I've got the address of the safe house.
And then we'll wait."

"

" How long?  "

"How long..  what?"

"How long would we wait?"  "

" A week, two?  Maybe more.  "

"Until the FBI is sure he won't show, or until he knocks on my door
here?  I presume you'll have a team watching my place?  "

"Yeah," he affirmed, his eyes puzzled.

"And what if he doesn't come?"

A light flashed in his eyes as she saw him think he understood what she
was after.  "We wouldn't leave you on your own unless we were damned
sure he wouldn't be a threat."

She swallowed a sharp retort.  He'd made that same promise three years
ago.  And here he was again.  Because Bill was after her again.  So
much for promises.

"You won't have to worry about anything," he said.

"Because you'll catch the bad guy," she said, and couldn't hold back
the dull edge from her voice.

"If possible, yes."

Yes, she thought.  If possible, if necessary.  He had caught the bad
guy three years ago.  He'd held her in his strong arms and comforted
her, reassured her that everything would be all right.  And lonely,
desperate, scared beyond thought, she'd responded to the sheer maleness
of him, the strengths , the vulnerabilities she'd glimpsed in him, and
had allowed him to see her own weaknesses, those weaknesses that were
all on the surface back then.

But the justice system had decided that the bad guy need only be
sidetracked for a few years, a breather in the life of a man determined
to kill her.  And the good guy, this good guy, had stayed only long
enough to hear the sentence before running three-thousand miles away
from her.  Another g , assignnment, back on the road, he d said.  Back
to his life, back to the arms of the wife he hadn't told her about. His
wife.

What did he want from her now?  Were too many sleepless nights spent
regretting a single kiss supposed to make her receptive to his
return?

The trouble was, she thought half-coherently, her body was all too
receptive.  Her heart was still beating in an irregular rhythm, an un
syncopated thrum.  And her lips felt dry and in need of moisture.  As
she ran her tongue between them, she realized they were dry not in
nervousness but in some bizarre anticipation.  As fresh as though it
were yesterday , she could feel his lips upon hers, his hot breath upon
her cheek

He seemed to invade her house, infusing it with his scent-that same
heady, musky scent-and making it smaller by his sheer presence, his
certainty that she would do whatever he ordered, a willing soldier to
his commanding tone.

Packing a bag and slinking out of her own home, a home she had fought
for, won with long, hard work and determination , simply wasn't an
alternative.  The old Kelsey would have done as he dictated, no
questions asked.  But that Kelsey was dead and buried.  And John
Chandler had orchestrated her epitaph.

She wondered whether she would have felt so affected, so adamant about
not leaving her home if it had been any other agent who had shown up on
her doorstep.  Was she simply reacting to the pity, the memory of the
old, fragile Kelsey in his eyes that made her want to prove him
wrong?

Thinking this, wondering about it, she tried offering some measure of
courtesy, if only as a reward for informing her that Bill was out.  If
only because he'd tried helping her three years ago and had succeeded
in irrevocably changing her life.  Courtesy, maybe, but did she have to
thank him?  She didn't think so.

She gestured to one of the heavy oak dining chairs.  He didn't move and
she was forced to meet his eyes again.  She wasn't sure what the
message in his gaze portended, but she was suddenly, sharply aware of
their being alone in her large house, alone in the night.

"What's going on here, Kelsey?"  he asked.

"Won't you sit down?"  she asked in return.

"No.  I just want to get a handle on what I'm seeing."

She turned away from him and walked into the spacious, open kitchen.
She hoped that he couldn't see how nervous he made her feel.  She
unlatched the buckled holster and laid the gun on the bar counter.

"That, for instance," he said.

"My bar?"  she asked lightly, although she felt anything but
lighthearted.  "Or the .38?"

He didn't say anything and she didn't turn around from her retrieval of
two glasses to see his reaction.  She had the distinct feeling she was
playing with fire when trying to banter with John Chandler, a man who
hadn't minced words three years ago, had seemed to grow even harder in
the interim.

"Orange juice or iced tea?"  she asked.  "Or would you like something
stronger?"

"Stronger," he said.  And she could have sworn he muttered , "I'm gonna
need it."

She made him a Scotch and water over ice and poured herself a glass of
lemon-flavored iced tea.  She wanted to keep her wits about her.  Last
night, last week, she would have said it was necessary because he'd
just told her Bill Winslow was out there somewhere and undoubtedly
coming after her.  But tonight she knew it was because of John
Chandler, standing like a statue, eyeing her dining room like a panther
might stare at a loose rod in his cage.

"Some dippy woman practically gave out your address on national
television yesterday," he said as she handed him his drink.

There it was.  Thanks, Jilly.  Whatever she'd said on the talk show had
been as bad as Kelsey had gleaned from their rambling conversation.
Something in Jilly's spew of misinformation had tipped somebody off.
She had been recognized

"One of the women in one of the support groups," Kelsey said quietly.

"Well, tell her for me that with friends like her, you sure don't need
any enemies."

"She's a lonely, confused woman," Kelsey said repressively Or was it
defensively?

"She's an idiot.  And so are you for telling her who you are."

Kelsey didn't stop to guard her tongue nor did she hesitate to meet his
eyes now.  "I didn't tell her a damned thing!  She's the kind of
busybody who makes it her business to figure out everything and
anything.  Most of the time she's so far off base that no one would
dream of listening to her!  "

"I thought you said she was a lonely, confused woman," he said.  A grin
lifted one side of his mouth.

"I don't have to defend myself to you or anyone else," Kelsey said.
Like her other statement, it sounded all too defensive She wanted to
tell him that it was her life, he hadn't been around when she'd had to
grapple with the hardships involved in the program, and he had no right
to question her.  But saying all that might sound as if she were
looking for pity, and that was the last thing she'd want from John
Chandler.  The very last thing.

" " I followed standard procedure, " she said.  " " I never took a step
without the express permission of the program case workers.  No one's
recognized me in three years Not until those news accounts," she added
with some bitterness.  " " It was only a matter of time after the
newspeople got hold of your picture again.  "

She frowned a question.

"Hell, Kelsey, you can dye your hair, you can change your last name.
But let's face it, you would have to wear a Halloween mask and gain two
hundred pounds before someone who knew you wouldn't recognize you," he
said dryly.  "And even then I'd have my doubts."

Kelsey's breath caught in her throat again.  Something about the way he
said it made her feel naked.  "Did you?"  she asked.  " " Have my
doubts?  " " "Recognize me."

He didn't answer for a minute, his eyes slowly taking her in.  "Black
hair doesn't change you all that much."

She could tell he was lying.  And the realization pleased her for some
reason.

"I think it does," she said.

When he didn't speak, she met his eyes again and was immediately sorry.
Whatever the reason for his comment, and however much his arrival on
her doorstep might have been caused by Bill Winslow's release, his
thoughts weren't on Bill now.  She didn't know how or why she knew
that, she just did.  And she doubted his thoughts were even on the safe
house or the possible lengthy custodial duty.

He looked away before she could probe any further.  He stared out her
double-barred patio doors to the broad garden and lawn beyond, a dark
field lit only by tiki lights.  She saw his eyes take in the high,
stucco-covered adobe wall that surrounded the grounds.  And she saw the
russet stain that colored his cheeks, the back of his neck.

"Three years seems like a very long time ago," she said finzzlly.  His
eyes slowly shifted to meet hers.  " " I wonder if Winslow feels the
same way.  "

She felt as though he'd slapped her.

"Why don't we cut the small talk, Kelsey?  Go pack a bag or two."

"No."

He sighed.  " " look..  I don't want to argue.  I just want to get you
to safety.  Okay?  "

"No."

"I knew this was a mistake," he said, though Kelsey was fairly sure he
wasn't speaking to her.

She wanted to ask him to be more specific, but was more than
half-afraid what his answer might be.  She felt a strange, nearly
foreign tug at the heartstrings she thought stilled forever.  His
expression was distant, but more sorrow filled than angry.

She sat down at the table, placing her heated palms against the cool
oak.  Now he sat down, as well, moving as though his back hurt him and
Kelsey rememberecl him telling her that he'd been assigned to her case
all those years ago because he was recuperating from a bullet wound.
Another case.  Another lifetime ago that she'd heard about it.  Still,
perversely, she found herself wishing there was something she could do
to ease that pain.  What was it about him that seemed to stir the old
Kelsey emotions?  Was he just a reminder of the past?  Or was it
because he was one of the few people on earth who knew her past, her
life, her name?

"Tell me why you don't want to go to a safe house," he said.  His tone
suggested that he would listen to her reasons, then lay some sanity on
her.  It raised her hackles.

"You've seen this house.  I'm safer here than I would be at any " safe'
house.  If Bill's going to show up, I'd rather deal with him on my own
turf.  "

"That's hooey.  And you know it.  You can't deal with someone like
Winslow."

66 Extreme Justice q Extreme Justice 67

"I'm tired of running," she said heavily.  Honestly.  "Tired of running
or tired of living?"  he asked harshly.

_ John saw Kelsey flinch at his words as though he'd struck her, and
hated himself for having hurt her.  That was the very last thing he
wanted to do.  But what was he supposed to do?  Take her cold advice
and let her be?  He wasn't much in the persuasion department, he was
more used to action than words, but this called for some of that
nonexistent charm Charlie liked to kid him about.  He had to make her
understand that she was no more safe here than she'd been in Bethesda
when her ex hired a hit man to kill her.

"Kelsey," he said, trying by tone to convey his sympathy for her, his
need to have her listen to what she was saying.  But even to himself
his voice sounded hard, as cold as hers had been.  He wanted to say a
million different things, some of which had nothing to do with Bill
Winslow or the events that had occurred three years ago-except one.

"It's no use trying to talk me into going," she said softly, her rich
contralto voice lingering in the air like a scent.

As it had every time she'd spoken during those two months, three years
earlier, her voice played on his spine like a sonata, making him
stiffen his resolve against a desire to take her in his arms and damn
the consequences.  He'd made that mistake once, he wasn't likely to
repeat it.  And judging by the grim set of her features, she wasn't
likely to let him try.

"But thanks for telling me Bill's out.  It's a good safety tip."

John didn't find her words amusing.  If anything, he found them
poignant.  It was a simple statement of fact telling him that she'd
been hurt by one too many people, felt a complete lack of trust in
other's abilities to help her.  Her words also spelled out the distance
between she and John and strengthened his notion that she wasn't
interested in shortening that gap.

But he wasn't about to just accept her decision to stay.  He hadn't
been kidding when he called it suicide.  Trying to face down a maniac
such as Winslow was exactly that.  " " Kelsey..  we have to talk.  "

"There's nothing to talk about," she said somewhat defiantly'I know
Jilly may have thrown a wrench in the works by going on television like
that" She raised her hand as if he'd been about to interrupt her.  The
gesture was unnecessary, he couldn't have spoken if she'd held him at
gunpoint.  She was taking this far too casually, way too easily He felt
as though he were talking to a dark-haired twin of Kelsey's, a twin who
didn't have the foggiest notion what she was up against.

"But what's done is done.  And in a way, I'm glad she did it."

"Wh at!"

She nodded, her long, silky ponytail flipped off her shoulder.  John
wondered if it still felt the same, would it feel as soft in black?

"Maybe I'm relieved that all this subterfuge is at an end," she said,
and met his gaze squarely.  "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get
control of your life when your entire existence is a lie ?"

John shook his head, though he had a fairly good idea.  " " Do you know
what I do for a living?  I teach women how to take control of their
lives.  I teach them self-defense.  I teach them how to spot a lie a
country mile away.  And the whole time I'm doing that I'm lying to
them. Sometimes I even start believing those lies myself.  "

"Are you blaming me for that, Kelsey?"  John asked quietly when she'd
wound down.

She looked at him steadily.  "Partially, yes."

"Because I got you in the Witness Protection Program ?  "

"Because you didn't kill Bill Winslow when you had the chance."

If she had kicked him in the stomach, he couldn't have been more
surprised.  He had imagined many conversations with Kelsey, some wholly
in the fantasy realm, but he'd never have envisioned this one.

He glanced at the gun on her counter, back over at her fighting-trim
body, up to her defiant glare.  "You tell me when I had that chance,"
he said.

"When he showed up with the money."

"He was unarmed."

"He had hired someone to kill me," she said.

"And he went to prison for that."

"For three years.  Big deal."

"Kelsey... he didn't succeed."

"No?  Then what would you call having to creep out of town in the
middle of the night, move to a city where you don't know a single soul,
where you wake up in the morning with a different name, a different
background, a different life?  I call that overwhelming success."

John was trying to keep his own temper down.  Of all the twisted
thinking.  For Christ's sake, he'd saved her life.  She may have had to
alter a few details, but she was around to do that, wasn't she?  He ran
a hand through his thick hair, trying to keep his mouth shut despite
the fact she was damning every single good thing he thought he'd done
for her.

"You can call it whatever you like," he said through his teeth.  "But I
still see Kelsey when I look across this table.  And no matter how dark
your hair is, no matter how angry you've become, and no matter how much
you might think this is my fault-and let me tell you that really tie ks
me off-you still got a tongue to lash me with, a mouth to spew all this
out of.  I don't call that dead at all."

When she'd first opened that gate, his memory had fused his
recollection of her over her features.  Then he'd seen that Frazetta
silhouette, a gun-packing shadow.

Now he was forced to look again.  To see her clearly.  She was still as
beautiful, inky black hair pulled back in a modified ponytail that made
her look more like a teenager than a woman of thirty-something, large
blue eyes that conjured up images of Sunday mornings in bed, laughing
at an old movie, warm fires in winter.  Her figure was still
superlative , though slimmer than he remembered or normally liked, and
her long legs, encased in those tight, shiny stretch things, certainly
were as elegantly curved as before.  Yet she was different.  All-over
different.

For one thing, an expensive holster rested on her bar with a .  38
caliber pistol nestled inside it and he'd seen her wearing it like a
pro.  John didn't know too many women who sat around chewing out FBI
agents, a gun lying on their kitchen counter so casually that it might
as well have been one of her copper pans.

For another, the Kelsey of three years ago had hardly said boo to any
of the boys, let alone argued with them.  This Kelsey was almost
literally loaded for bear.

She sighed and looked away from him.  Her eyes were luminous with
unshed tears, but they weren't the tears of fear, the kind she'd shed
three years ago.  These were the evidence of her unresolved anger, her
frustration, and perhaps , even a tinge of guilt for lashing out at
him.

He realized, more on a subliminal level than with any real conscious
thought, that the differences in Kelsey weren't merely physical or even
mental.  They were thorough, fundamental Endemic.  No fear had shown in
her eyes, her steady gaze, her poise, when he'd told her Bill Winslow
was out.  She hadn't responded with a tremor in her voice, a trembling
in her lip.  She'd asked him why he'd come to Lubbock.

And she'd answered his bitter remark about Bill Winslow with an echoing
bitterness.  But then he'd caught her slight smile.  Had he seen that
particular smile on an agent's lips he would have said the agent was
looking forward to an encounter of some kind.  He couldn't help
glancing over at The gun on her counter told him she recognized the dan
the weapon on the bar again.  She'd said she was tired of danger.  That
was no toy or prop she hauled around; that was the living a lie, tired
of running.  Did that also mean she was real McCoy.  A deadly
reality.

planning to settle things with Winslow once and for all?  "Damn it,
Kelsey.  Winslow's a first-class nut case!  You're

The notion almost made him smile.  If that was what she the one that
convinced me!  I believed you when you said he'd come after you the
first chance he got.  The man's as was after, little, fragile Kelsey
Winslow had become one g , , y g , , danlterTq as a ratdesdl kc.  And
we've lost him.  don't you touch cookie.  And if it were true he found
he couldn t get e man is ca y. " blame her one bit.  If he were in her
shoes, he d be heartily sick of running, of lying, of waiting for a
knock on the door At his words, her eyelids narrowed slightly, and
again, that could mean the end of security, could even mean the
puzzling him even more, that faint smile played on her lips.

So am I, John.  " end of living.  He could only stare at her.  Finally
he leaned forward un But surely she could see that thinking about a
conf rontil there were only three or four inches separating them.  She
tat ion with someone such as Winslow was a whole world didn't flinch so
much as an iota.  " The man wants to kill different than actually doing
it?  you, Kelsey.  "

"Kelsey, look, I know how difficult this all must have " Nothing has
changed, then," she said flippantly.  been for-" His hand shot out
without his even being aware of it.  He

"No, you don't," she interrupted coldly.  Her gaze shifted grabbed her
slender wrist and forced her to meet his gaze.  to his.  All evidence
of tears was gone.  A wicked light danced She met it coolly.  He wanted
to shake her until she backed in the fathomless blue, a hot fire.  "You
don't know any- down, until she said she understood what he was trying
to thing about it.  Nobody who hasn't died and tried to rebuild tell
her.

a life out of the ashes can possibly know.  " Or was it until she
begged him for mercy?  he asked him " Look," he said.  " I didn't come
here to make you an- self acidly.  What did that make him?  But damn
it, she gnq.  " shouldn t look at him as if he were the cause of her
troubles

"Then why have you come, John?  Do you have direct " pre you oin to let
me o?  " " y g g g she asked.  information that Bill knows where I am?
"No," he answered immediately.  "Not until you listen to

"He saw that television program your girlfriend gabbed me."  on.  "I am
listening.  I don't see that you need to touch me ,

"So?"  while I do so.  "

Her seemingly honest confusion puzzled John.  She She said it so
stiffly, so primly, that John wanted to laugh couldn't be so naive as
to think that Bill Winslow would out loud.  Pistols for two, but take
your filthy hands off me, simply fade into obscurity, leave her alone?
She had been the you evil man.  He didn't release her.  He even shook
her wrist one to convince John and a host of other FBI agents that a
little.  "You may think you're hearing me, but you're obWinslow was a
man without a conscience.  Surely she Obviously not taking in my
meaning.  We had an informant in couldn't have changed this much?  the
cell with Winslow the last couple of months before his

72 Extreme lust ice release.  Pete likened your ex to a wolverine,
Kelsey.  That's an animal that kills for the pure pleasure of it.  "

She looked down at his hand grasping her wrist.  She said nothing but
the chill emanating from her was such that he sloqvly released her.  To
his self-disgust, he saw the red marked evidence of his grip on her
wrist.  She didn't rub it or acknowledge it in any way.  The look on
her face stilled his instinctive apology.

"I got all that," she said icily.  "I just don't understand where the
FBI fits in all this."

And suddenly John understood.  Like a blinding flash it came to him.
What was going on with Kelsey wasn't just a notion, it was the farthest
thing from any daydream.

Her stiffened shoulders, her cool expression, they hadn't been because
of him; they'd had to do with Winslow.  The locks on her gate, the gun
on her hip..  they all added up to one thing.  Kelsey might be
different, but with good reason.  She'd been trained the hard way not
to trust anybody.  She hadn't forgotten what Winslow was like..  far
from it.  She remembered better than anyone ever should have to, the
fact that her husband had wanted her dead.  She knew her friend had
made a serious blunder by going on television, and now that she knew
for certain Bill had seen the program, she knew he would be coming
after her.

And she understood perfectly well there was only so much the law could
do to protect her.  She'd made her home into a fortress, her body lithe
and quick, and she wore a holster with a gun tucked inside and took it
off with the smooth motion of someone who has learned to eat, breathe
and sleep with it.  Kelsey had gone into the business of taking care of
herself.

He felt a shaft of admiration for her shoot through him, warming him
for the first time since he'd entered her house.  It was hard to give
up his memory of Kelsey as a sweetly trembling, frightened woman, a
woman who needed big, tough John Chandler around for protection.  But,
in many ways, the changes, differences, carried an allure all their
own.

"Kelsey," he said softly, looking her straight in the eyes, "I am here
to help you.  And I'm going to do just that.  If you don't like it, you
can request another agent."

He saw the flicker in her eyes but continued as though he hadn't
noticed.  "It doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me one way or
the other," he lied.  "But someone is going to get you out of here. 
And since I know you, and you know me, such as it is, and more
important, since I know Bill Winslow, I'm suggesting you give in and
accept the situation"

"I'll make a deal with you," she said steadily.

"What?"  he asked warily.

"You stay... but we stay here."  "

" Damn it"

"Otherwise, I'll just show you the door."

"I can plaq you under protective custody," he threatened

"Arrest me, you mean?"

"Yes."

"That's the only way I'll go out that door, and trust me, John,
everybody in Lubbock would hear me screaming."

John couldn't help smiling a little.  He didn't have a doubt she would
carry out her counter bluff Nonetheless, he asked, "And what purpose
would that serve?"

"It would let Bill know exactly where I am.  And he'd come.  And I'd
kill him."

John didn't dare let her see how her dark statement rocked him.  This
had turned from a simple game of outbluffing the bluffer to some deadly
intent.  He saw her eyes widen as she took in her own words, the
meaning behind them.  And then he saw her assume the mantle of purpose.
How many times had he done the same thing, said he'd get the guy, then
feel the determination come on the heels of the statement?

Charlie Fulghum was going to love hearing about this one, he thought.
He realized he'd be glad to switch places with Charlie right about now.
He'd rather be chasing after UFOs any day than sitting across from this
lovely woman with murder on her mind.  Especially when all he wanted to
do was gather her into his arms and hold her until that tension drained
from her shoulders.

If Charlie were here, John thought, trying to think of anything but the
mental image he'd conjured up, Charlie would pull some razzle-dazzle on
Kelsey and she'd be trotting along to the safe house, trusting Charlie
to take care of everything.  But Charlie wasn't there and John couldn't
think of any smooth, charming lines to entice her to do what he wanted.
All he could do was stall.

"Look.  It's late.  I've been on the road all day and I'm beat."

He saw her eyes flicker in confusion.  She wasn't the only one who
could weasel out of an argument by changing the subject abruptly.

"We can haggle over details in the morning," he said.  "If you won't
go.  I'll stay.  Tonight."

"Tonight?"  she asked hoarsely.  Her eyes were wide and suddenly
unguarded.  Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing.

"Tonight," he repeated.  "Come on.  I'll help you lock up.  We'll talk
in the morning."  He pushed to his feet.  He shoved his hands into his
pockets, more to keep from reaching out to touch her than for lack of
anything to do with them.  go

"In the morning," she repeated weakly.  "And then you'll

"Hell, no.  I'm on assignment, remember?  Thejob says I have to protect
you, Kelsey.  It doesn't say a thing about you having to want me to."

Chapter 4

Thursday, November 11 7. "30a.m."  Denver, Colorado

He found the smoker's corner in the Denver airport and leaned against
the cinder block wall, staring out the dirty windows at the service
area below.  A light snow dusted the paving, made the planes white and
ghostly.  Bill drew on his cigarette, accepting the thick, gray clouds
that delayed his flight with a calm, almost serene air.

He'd made it this far without detection, he didn't have to worry about
such a minor detail like a snowstorm.  If need be, he could rent a car
and drive.  He had cash, more now than he had last night, and he had a
wide variety of credit cards to choose from.  So far he'd only used the
three females ' cards, pulling the limit from three different automated
teller machines in three different states.  Somebody would trace them
eventually, but it didn't matter; he'd already disposed of them in a
trash bin in Philadelphia.

"Dr.  Johnson?"

He turned, smiling.  "Yes?"

"You asked me to let you know if there was any change in the ETA of
your flight to Dallas.  It's going to be another hour at least."

Bill blew out a cloud of smoke and allowed his smile to broaden.
"Thanks for telling me, Angie.  You're a wonder.  Those airline people
should snap you up.  You're a lot friendlier than they are."

Angie giggled.  "They tried.  I make more in the beauty shop."

"I'll bet you do," he said.  He sighed, without looking away from her.
"I guess I'll just have to hang around a little longer."  He let her
understand he didn't mind this at all.

She smiled back.  "An hour's not much time," she said, letting him know
just how much she did comprehend.

"Oh, honey, in my line of work, an hour can be critical"

She giggled again and Bill put out his cigarette.

He didn't tip Angie, either.  He didn't need to.

Thursday, November 11 8:00 a. m. " Lubbock, Texas

Kelsey poured herself a cup of coffee, wrapping her cold hands around
the mug to warm them.  She tried shutting her ears to the sound of
John's shower, tried closing her mind to the image of him standing
beneath the water, rivulets streaming down his lean body.

He'd been in her house only twelve hours and had already managed to
drive her practically crazy with his invasion She hadn't slept well the
night before, knowing he was only a wall away, all too able to picture
him between the sheets, sprawled across the double bed that seemed too
small for him.

,

Every time he'd moved, she d heard him, had lain still upon her bed,
tenseql in some bizarre anticipation.  But he hadn't reopened the
bedroom door all night and hers had remained as firmly shut.

She wasn't used to sharing her house, her privacy, with anyone.  She
hadn't done so for three long years.  And she wasn't sure she liked it
now.  It made her feel divided somehow , as though a part of her had to
be listening for whatever the outside world might do to her, while, at
the same time, part of her had to pay attention to the interior of her
home.  He destroyed her routine just by being there, and his being
there destroyed her presence of mind.

The last thing he'd said before closing the door to the guest room was
that they would come up with a plan in the morning.  And all night long
she'd tossed and turned thinking about the look on his face when he'd
said it.  Something in his expression gave her the feeling he hadn't
been referring to Bill Winslow and her current predicament.

She'd asked how they could plan for something as vague as Bill
Winslow's discovery of her whereabouts.  He'd smiled tiredly and grazed
her cheek with the back of his hand.

"Everything in life needs some kind of plan," he'd said.

She'd felt the blood rise to her cheeks and thought with a wild sort of
desperation, whatever the reason John Chandler had come to her house,
it wasn't strictly for her protection 's sake.  His words, the almost
vow like quality in his voice, gave him away.  He had met her eyes
steadily, a flash fire of some unexpressed emotion burning in the brown
depths.

How could she stay alert to danger, when he distracted her so?  And
what was it about having him in her house that made her feel the
greatest danger to her hard-won peace of mind was upstairs taking a
shower?

The dim roar of the nqshing water halted abruptly and she heard him
whistling softly.  She knew a moment's irritation with him.  How dare
he sound so cheerful?  This was her life they were talking about,
wasn't it?  He sounded for all the world as though he was getting
dressed for a Sunday picnic " " Kelsey.  ?  "

She whirled around, having been so lost in her thoughts she hadn't
heard him leave the bedroom and pad down the stairs.

"You move like a ghost," she snapped.  But she wasn't angry over his
having startled her, she was annoyed that he'd come down to the kitchen
looking fresh, chipper and altogether too comfortable with this
arrangement.  She felt like something the cat dragged home, despite her
own shower, in spite of the crisp, clean clothes she'd finally decided
upon this morning.

His shirt was still half-undone, his broad chest still beaded with
moisture that clung to the coarse brown curls.  His hair was combed,
his face smooth and sending off a hint of a clean, desert scent, but
his feet were bare.  A towel was still draped around his shoulders,
apparently protecting the shirt from his still-wet hair or possibly
from the shaving lotion.

Her knees felt strangely weak, and her fingertips actually tingled with
reaction.  She curled them into her suddenly warm palms, trying to
subdue the urge to take the towel from his shoulders and brush it
across his chest.

"Can I have a cup of that coffee?"  he asked, pointing at the pot.

She stared at his finger blankly, followed its direction.  He had the
nerve to stand in her kitchen, still hot from the shower, a grin on his
face, and ask for a cup of coffee?

Time seemed to fold in on itself.  Last night, surrounded by shadows,
lying in a darkened corner of her bedroom, too aware of the man in the
next room, three years had seemed a lifetime.  Suddenly in the harsh
light of morning, his scent filling her nostrils, three years didn't
seem a very long time at all.

"Kelsey?"

She met his eyes.  She thought they might as well be touching, might as
well be locked in an embrace, the unspoken message in his gaze was so
clear.  At the quickened pace of his breathing, his sudden stillness,
the flicker in his eyes, she understood she must have been projecting
equally strongly.  She had the strange sensation of being in a vacuum ,
that all the air had disappeared.

She shook her head slowly; this couldn't be happening.  She wasn't the
same woman, no matter if he was totally the same man.  After three
years of carefully building a new life, no matter how it might be based
on a foundation of lies, she had felt safe, secure.  And the feelings
he inspired in her were the first leap into chaos, for the minute she
dropped her guard she would open herself up to a whole universe of
hurt.

Whatever might have happened between them had died with her own
rebirth.  She knew, for all her wishes on twinkling stars, that she
didn't have what it took to trust someone anymore.  Bill had used every
last bit of her trust, and a single kiss three years ago didn't
mitigate it one little bit.

She set her own mug down, retrieved one for him and swiftly, sloppily,
poured him a dollop of the dark brew.  She set it on the counter and
placed her palms facedown, cooling them against the Mexican tile,
wishing they hadn't been shaking so noticeably, spelling out her
reaction to him in graphic detail.

"I don't remember how you take it," she said deliberately , not looking
at him, unwilling to put it in his hands herself.  She picked up her
own cup and held it in front of her like a tiny wet shield.  She had to
hold it with both hands.

"Hot," he said.

She felt a blush work a flash fire across her cheeks.

"Black's fine," he added.  "I switched over years ago.  It's too hard
to take cream on a stakeout."

"I have cream," she said.  Somehow the innocuous statement took on an
alternate meaning, becoming an invitation of sorts.  She hadn't
intended it that way, had she?  She risked a glance at him and was
immediately sorry she had.

He was looking at her in a combination of curiosity and that stillness
that presaged the feeling of a vacuum.  His head was cocked slightly to
one side and his full lips were unsmiling and thoughtful.  His eyes
seemed even darker than usual.

"I'm sure you do," he said.  And like her words, his were filled with
alternate possibilities.

She dragged her gaze free and drained her cup.  Her hands felt even
more unsteady as she poured another one.  She was fully awake, all too
alert, but felt as though she was still asleep and dreaming.  John
Chandler couldn't be standing so close to her that she could smell the
scent of his shampoo and freshly applied after-shave, looking so at
home, so at ease, so there.

"I've thought about it," he said, and she had the guilty feeling he was
reading her mind.  She glanced at him quickly and saw a glint of
amusement in his eyes.  "I've got a plan."

He moved to the dining table, hooked a chair with his bare foot.  He
straddled the chair backward, resting his elbows easily on the sturdy
back.  He swirled the coffee in the mug, staring down at it as if
reading some message in the dark liquid.  His jouncing right leg gave
away some degree of his nervous energy.  Or his tension.  And somehow
the sheer motion conjured other thoughts, inspired notions of other
activities.  Kelsey couldn't seem to look anywhere else but at that
jostling leg.  Her mouth felt dry and her mind numb.

"The way I see it," he said, cocking his head to one side the
unconscious gesture oddly sexy, "Winslow's first step was to shake the
tails.  The only reason he'd need to do that is because he is planning
to find you.  And since we know for a fact he saw that show, step two
will be to track down that talk show to try and find out where your
friend called from.  I already called that Winters woman and told her
not to spill the beans.  She agreed.  She also agreed to call the
Bureau if anyone asked for that information."

He nodded as if she had agreed with him.

"Think you can get your friend to keep low for a few days?"  he
asked.

Kelsey shook her head.

"I think a little " protective custody' might be in order for your
lonely, confused gal.  "

Kelsey couldn't help smiling.  She could imagine how Jilly would react
to that, like a greyhound to a well-seasoned steak.

"Well, we've got that on our side, then."

With him sitting in her dining room, making her think all sorts of
unruly things, that was the only thing she felt was on her side.

"But he's not stupid.  He knows you're in Texas.  And from what your
friend said, he knows you're helping women somehow.  He'll start with
the phone books and then call those hot-line things saying he needs
help or something.  Are you in any directories?"

"For the training classes, yes.  But under my assumed name," Kelsey
said.  "And then only with a K. My home phone is unlisted."

"Okay, good.  But we can't lose sight of the fact that your ex is a con
artist.  For him, as determined as he seems to be, it shouldn't take
too long to trace you.  Are there any records out here in your own
name?  "

"No," she said.  Her voice sounded cracked, as dry as her throat.  She
turned away slightly, concentrating on the refrigerator Trying to
concentrate on it, at any rate.  How could he sit there, looking the
way he did, talking so casually about something like Bill Winslow
finding her?

But it wasn't the reference to Bill Winslow that was making her heart
beat so uncomfortably, was it?  Unfortunately the refrigerator didn't
need washing.

She realized he was waiting for her to elaborate and swiftly sought the
thread of their conversation.  "I've always used Dobson."

"But stuck with the Kelsey?"

"That's standard policy," she said.  "Seems a lot of people forget
their new first name."  She tried shooting him a look of scorn, but was
sure it fell short of the mark.

"Okay.  He's been out almost twenty-four hours now.  One day for
getting his bearings and shaking the tails and maybe digging up a
little money.  Another to get to Texas.  Give or take a few hours.  He
can call the talk-show people from whatever airport he's flying in or
out of, so that shouldn't slow him down any.  My guess is he'll shoot
for Dallas/ Fort Worth first.  It'll take him a while to settle on
Lubbock."

She didn't say anything.  He was right, that was exactly what Bill
would do, and he was also right about Bill's being able to con the
people involved into giving him whatever he wanted.  Bill Winslow was a
master at human manipulation She should know.  She'd given him house,
hearth, savings accounts and all her love and trust besides.  And what
had he given her in return?  Debts, former lovers, the back of his hand
whenever she dared question him, and a contract on her life.

She turned to agree with John, to say his estimation of Bill's
abilities was correct, and the words froze in her throat.  John wasn't
sitting at the table, a nice safe distance away from her.  He was less
than four inches away now.

She tried shrinking into herself, pulled back as far as she could, but
she could still feel the heat radiating from his freshly scrubbed body,
could smell his own scent beneath the splash of after-shave, could feel
her skin tingling in sharp reaction.

He held up his mug.  "I need another cup."  He tipped the coffeepot-not
spilling any-but he didn't return to his seat.  He leaned against the
bar instead, making her kitchen crowded and overly small.

"Are you hungry?  Do you want something to eat?"  Kelsey asked him
nervously.  What exactly do you want, John Chandler?  she wanted to ask
but couldn't.

John had to smile.  This was so like the Kelsey he remembered , always
having to do something.  He'd watched her studying the icebox with
assiduous care, and had been surprised she hadn't picked up the dish
towel to swipe at it.

But she was as nervous as a school kid this morning.  This would not be
the first time today that she wouldn't meet his eyes, he noted.  He was
trying his damnedest to be casual, especially considering he felt
anything but easy around her.  When he'd heard her shower running, he'd
realized his own would have to be cold for the most part.  And trying
to sleep in a room right next to hers had damn near driven him nuts.
Every time she so much as rolled over, his mind supplied images of her
perfect figure tangled up in those flowery sheets he'd glimpsed before
they'd firmly shut their respective doors on possibility.

He swallowed a scalding gulp of his coffee and managed to say around
his burning tongue, "So, I figure we'd better go into high gear,
because he could be knocking on that door anytime after tonight.  That
is, if you still insist on staying here?  "

"Yes," she said, and hoped it didn't sound as breathless to him as it
did to her.

"I'll need the phone, then."  Without waiting for an answer , he
rounded the bar and lifted the receiver from the wall unit.  Within
seconds he'd barked orders to collect Jilly and keep her on ice, secure
the Dallas/ Fort Worth airport, fix teams to watch Kelsey's house on
four-hour cycles, to patch through any calls from talk-show host Laurie
Winters and to call Kelsey's home number the second they had any
information as to Winslow's whereabouts or anything he may have done or
anyplace he'd been in the past twenty-four hours.  He hung up as
abruptly as he'd begun the call.

"Now that we have a few things in place, and assuming he gets this far,
we can figure out a plan of attack for once he gets here."

She looked up at him, startled into meeting his gaze.  "What?"

"That's what you want, isn't it?  To bag him?"

John felt a pang of guilt as she frowned over his question This moroing
she was a lot closer to the Kelsey he used to know than the gun-toting
woman of the night before.  Maybe her toughness had been an act, put on
for God only knew what reason.

"Or we could hustle you out right now, get you to a safe house," he
added reasonably.  Hopefully.  A showdown with someone such as Winslow
wasn't a good idea, but John wanted out of her house for a lot more
reasons than that, the primary one being that everything about the
place screamed Kelsey.  He could smell that faint lemony scent in every
room, could see her imprint on each object, every decorative touch in
the place.  A safe house would be just that..  safer for John.

"No," she said swiftly.  "No safe house.  We've already been through
that ."

So, the act had been genuine enough, but why was she so nervous in the
light of day?  He'd smelled the coffee, heard her moving around and,
like an animal following his nose, had made his way downstairs.  And no
matter how he tried acting calm himself, she remained jumpy, shaking
hands clutching her coffee mug as if it were a talisman or shield, her
shoulders drawn and pinched, her arms tight against her sides.

He'd tried to infuse a sense of purpose, tried to convey a certain
blase capableness, his ability to handle the job, keep her safe, an
almost nonchalance about the danger facing her..  facing them both.  A
sense that he could take care of anything, that he knew what to do
next.  And it wasn't an act.  The only part he was faking was that he
was immune to her.  He was anything but.

Still, this was an assignment, and a damned dangerous one.  They had to
move quickly, had to operate swiftly, because

Winslow was definitely on his way to find Kelsey.

John had to know what she was capable of, how far that toughness went,
and he had to know it fast.  After her words the night before, the look
on her set face, he'd assumed that she would welcome this
matter-of-fact approach to the business at hand.

But instead of making her relax with the old Chandler tact, he'd just
made her more nervous.  He wanted to take that ridiculous coffee mug
from her hands and warm them himself.  He wanted to warm a lot more
than that.

"Have you got a notepad or something I can write on?"

John asked now, squelching whatever he might-and shouldn' the feeling
about Kelsey.

"In the highboy," she said, gesturing toward a large, Taostyled pine
chest that led the way into her spacious living room.  He opened it and
after staring at the contents in some surprise-it was a complete office
system, computer and printer included-he found a spiral steno pad and
pulled it free.

Before he could turn around, Kelsey asked, "Why you,

John?  " He froze at the question.  He'd asked the same thing, but
somehow, coming from her, the import seemed greater.

When she saw him stiffen, she realized she was holding her breath,
waiting for an answer that seemed a long time in a coming.  She'd had
to ask.

He didn't look at her as he mumbled, "I knew you.  You knew me.  The
Bureau had to send someone you knew.  Because of the Witness Protection
guidelines."  "

Damn the guidelines," she said softly.  He turned to look at her then.
She felt the shock of their locked gazes.  This was a showdown of
another variety.  But it had to be said, had to be aired.

"They could have sent Charlie here," she suggested, not looking away
from him now, needing to know the answer.  What was she doing?  Trying
to get him to spell out how little he cared whether he had this
assignment or not?  What possible point was she trying to proveq

"Charlie's on his way to Peru," he said.  A slight grin tugged at his
lips.  "To look for flying saucers."

She withheld an answering smile, perhaps in some measure of revenge for
a too-offhand comment uttered so long ago.  "Somehow that doesn't seem
like Charlie."

"

" Apparently some of the UFO watchers dabble in more than aliens.  "

He had dodged what she was looking for with neat precision She couldn't
continue the line of questioning without sounding like an utter
idiot.

She didn't have to.  John answered, anyway, spelling it out with rough
words totally at variance with his suddenly soft voice.  "What do you
want me to say, Kelsey?  That they assigned me because they knew I'd
kissed you three years ago?  That I still want to?  Hell, if they'd
known that, they would have chosen any rookie rather than let me get
within a hundred miles of you: '

There was no way on earth she could have spoken.  She was sorry she'd
asked.  And even sorrier that he'd admitted he still wanted to kiss
her; it came too close to her own confused desires.

"I'm not proud of that kiss, Kelsey," he said slowly.

"But... ?"  she asked, as much because he'd sounded as though there was
a lot he was leaving out as because she truly wanted to know.

"All right," he said, accepting her challenge.  "I'm not proud of it,
but I'd do it again in one of Charlie's New York minutes."

Again Kelsey had that sensation of standing in a vacuum , all the air
mysteriously having disappeared.  She couldn't seem to breathe,
couldn't seem to even think.  She had totally misunderstood him just
now.  Her unintentional challenge had been met with a full body
throw.

He slowly crossed the room, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen,
blocking any hope of exit.  It was unnecessary, she was sure she
couldn't have moved if her life depended on it, and was just as certain
that it somehow did.

He moved closer, and closer still until his shoulder blushed her hair,
his knuckles grazed her upper thigh.  But he didn't raise his hands or
lean down.  She had all but dared him to kiss her, she realized, and
now couldn't tell if he meant to touch her or not.  A rippling, eddying
tingle radiated out from the contact points, dizzying her, making her
feel strangely slow and torpid.  She closed her eyes, praying for some
kind of deliverance, but she couldn't have said what that might
entail.

"Kelsey," he said softly.

When she didn't-wouldn't-look up, he lifted his hand to raise her chin
so that she was forced to meet his gaze.

He was too close, she thought, and willed him to step back.  When he
didn't when his bourbon brown eyes seemed to lure her deeper and deeper
into their enmeshing gaze, she tried moving backward herself, but the
refrigerator blocked her.

"Kelsey," he repeated.  Her name on his lips was like the softest of
touches, a promise of some kind, a caress.  It undermined her
determination not to lower her defenses, made her think of firesides
and the taste of brandy on a hot tongue.  Made her remember their one
kiss, the kiss he'd said should never have happened.

" Y

"Please," she said more evenl than she felt, and only realized later
she hadn't included a negative.  "

Kelsey, don't be scared," he said.

She wanted to tell him he was the only thing making her nervous.  But
sheer nerves kept her lips sealed.

"We'll keep you safe."

Was that what he was talking about..  Bill?

She half chuckled in relief, and a curious disappointment

"What?"  he asked.  "

" I thought..  never mind.  "

"

"You thought what?  "

Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.  " "
I thought you were going to kiss me, " she mumbled.

She felt his stillness, the sudden tensing of the fingers against her
jawline

"If you only knew how much I wanted to," he said.

That tingling he'd inadvertently started by his touch now spread across
her shoulders and down her spine.  She met his gaze again, surprised,
fearful..  hopeful.  She could see the sincerity in his gaze and it
warmed her even as the confusion in his eyes surprised her.  "Why?" she
breathed.

He smiled, that one-sided, tug-of-the-lips grin that looked like a
cross between devilry and confusion.  "If you don't know, there's not a
damn thing I can say to explain it: '

She didn't say anything and he nodded as though he understood her
thoughts.

"There aren't too many people in this world who could have gone through
what you did and come out on the other side," he said slowly, changing
the subject, or possibly following an alternate line of it.  His
fingers brushed against the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, sending
a thousand shivers down her spine.

She tried thinking of those days in that bleak apartment, scared of her
own shadow, frightened of even existing, and shook her head.  But that
didn't stop his torture.

"Sometimes I wonder if I am on the other side," she said.  "Sometimes I
don't even know what that means."

She was aware she was breathing too rapidly, that her entire being was
focused on a pair of brown eyes, on the delicate touch of fingertips
against her skin.  That dreary morning seemed a thousand years in the
past.

He didn't answer.  His eyelids seemed to grow heavier, his gaze
softened.  His lips parted.  She knew hers had, as well.  Her limbs
felt languorous and slow.

"I know what it means," he all but whispered, and his lips lowered to
hers.

A shock wave of sensation ripped through her.  His body was a magnet to
hers and she could feel the sharp pull deep inside her.  She told
herself she should push him away, should do anything but continue to
stand there, trembling, aching, but her mouth opened to draw him
closer.

This couldn't happen, she thought incoherently.  It wasn't in the
cards.  She couldn't allow herself even the merest brush with trusting
someone again; she'd learned from sheer hard desperation exactly what
trust meant.

And yet her lips molded to his, tasting him, yearning for more even as
her mind spelled out their differences, the gulfs between them.  He
seemed to need no home, rolling from assignment to assignment, living
out of suitcases; she craved stability with almost fanatic desperation.
He believed in the strength, the sanctity of the law, the justice
system; she knew it for a sham and distrusted everything about it.

And he was a man, and men hurt the women they cozened into believing
them.  Didn't they?  Why couldn't she seem to understand that simple
reality at this moment?

But thinking these things, knowing them, couldn't stop her heart from
pounding, her fingers from numbing, her body from leaning into his.  He
tasted of the coffee she'd given him earlier, smelled of her soap and a
touch of his aftershave.  His touch was gentle and firm at the same
time and made her remember, made her want to forget.

As slowly as the morning sun rose in the east, he raised his head and
pulled at the air as though he were suffocating.  She allowed herself
the respite of resting her cheek against his shoulder, gasping for air
herself.

"Ah, Kelsey," he murmured against her hair.  His tone was sad, lonely.
It made her want to cry.

Neither of them moved for several seconds.  It seemed like lifetimes.
She'd forgotten what simply being held could mean.  How long had it
been since she'd given in to the comfort of a hug, warm arms embracing
her, holding her tightly against a broad chest?  Since the last time
John Chandler had held her, kissed her that one and only time three
years earlier.

She stiffened and pulled back from him, not daring to meet his gaze. If
she did, she would be lost in the depths of his brown eyes.  Not
forever, maybe not even for long, but lost nonetheless.  She felt
disoriented now.  And she was all too conscious of missing her
ever-present anger, that it had been supplanted by nostalgia, by
mystery, by confusion.  And most of all, by a longing so intense she
felt shattered.  If one kiss could do that to her, what would happen if
she gave in again, if she looked up and allowed him to glimpse the
hunger in her?

She desperately sought her sustaining anger, her life force, the source
of her strength.

"I'm not the same woman I was," she said more harshly than she
intended, her eyes on the floor.

"I'm not the same man," he countered easily.  Too easily , she thought.
She risked a glance at his face.  His features were etched with
unspoken emotion, but what emotions those might be she couldn't begin
to guess.  " " I'm not married anymore, " he added softly.

Was that an explanation for the kiss, an oblique apology for the one
years before, or was he implying that his single status made everything
okay now?  It wasn't okay.  His being divorced, widowed, or whatever he
was, was only a fact of life, not a factor in whether or not she would
ever succumb to another such kiss.

She smiled half-bitterly.  "

" I'm not a victim anymore, " she countered.

"I can see that," he said.  He trailed the edge of his thumb along the
curve of her cheek.  A shiver followed in its wake, and goose bumps
prickled on her arms.  She wanted to tell him to go to hell and beg him
to continue his touch all at the same time.  She shifted her head away
from that seductive contact.

"I wasn't kidding, John, when I said the Kelsey you knew was dead.  I
did die three years ago.  And when I was born again, I had a new life,
a new last name, and I found the only thing that really matters is
anger."

"That's not true, Kelsey."

"It is for me."

"No one could change that much," he said.

"I did," she said calmly, coldly.

He dropped his hands from her slowly, and stepped back a pace.  He
leaned against the edge of the kitchen wall.  He looked so natural
there, she wanted to tell him to move.  It's my wall, my house, my
life, even my loneliness..  don't come in here and confuse me, she
wanted to say, ached to say.  But saying the words aloud would grant
them greater import than a single-a second kiss in three years
deserved.

"Why?"  he asked, confusing her.  For a moment she actually wondered if
he'd read her mind.  "Why is anger the only thing that really matters?
"

For John, still trapped as he was in the sweet taste of her lips, the
moment seemed almost unbearably poignant.  He leaned against the wall
as much to detain her a moment longer as to support his back.  She had
disarmed him when she'd said she sometimes didn't known what being on
the other side of a broken life even meant.

He wished she could know how much he admired her and how much he wanted
to kiss her again, feel her body against his.  He hadn't even known
just how much himself until he heard the words spilling from his lips.
They hadn't come from his mind, he discovered; they had come from some
part of him that he seldom set free.  It didn't come from mere desire,
it was much more complex than that.  Perhaps it had come from that part
of him that knew the cutting edge of courage.

He should never have accepted this assignment, should never have kissed
her, should never have even toccched her.  There was something about
Kelsey that got under his skin.  Like a disease, he told himself, but
knew he was lying.  If that were a disease, people would line up to
catch it.

If only she weren't so beautiful, so achingly vulnerable despite her
tough act, the gun, the cold voice.  And, he thought suddenly, if only
he'd met her years ago, long before he discovered that when hearts
broke, they never really mended.

She studied him for a long moment, almost as if he were some rare and
particularly nasty variety of insect.  What had he asked her?  He
couldn't remember.  Something about why she felt anger.  " "
Necessity," she said.  " " I learned that anger is the only thing that
matters through sheer necessity."

" " Necessity is simply getting through the days till the heat dies
down," he said, trying to feel his way through the sudden conviction
that the ground he stood on was land mined.

Her eyes flashed.  "And when might that be, John?  When is the heat
going to end?  You told me it was over three years ago.  So when is it
going to stop?  When hell freezes over?"

John couldn't think of any retort to that one and knew it didn't matter
because it was strictly a rhetorical question.

"You know I'm right.  Bill made that perfectly clear when they were
taking him away.  You heard him.  I would never be safe from him,
remember?  And you believe that.  So does the FBI.  Or you wouldn't be
here.  So you see, fear, vulnerability , trust, all those things aren't
going to help me one whit.  Anger will."

"Not anger, Kelsey.  Maybe-"

She pushed away from the bar, from him, sprang from her stance like a
pilot ejected from a burning plane.  "Maybe nothing!"  she snapped.
"You don't know the half of it!"

"I know a lot more than you might think," he said, thinking of that
diary tucked in his overnighter upstairs.  "And I know that arguing
about it isn't going to help anything We have to get organized."

"

" I was organized before you got here, " she blurted out.

He frowned a question.  She didn't answer, and for some reason she
blushed.  He didn't have the foggiest notion why she'd done it, but it
proved she wasn't lashing out at him for anything he'd done in the
past, not even for the kiss they'd just shared, but for something in
her head, something that had to do with his sheer presence.  The notion
didn't necessarily displease him.

"Your life may have been organized, but there are things we need to do
here, set up some basic protective measures.  You heard me setting up
the observe teams.  They're probably already in place, or will be
relieving the team that watched last night.  Everything is set.  Now
all we have to do is hook up the alarms, set up the tracer-in case he
call sand see what you can do in the way of defending yourself."

He moved out of the kitchen and back to the table.  " " Then we just
sit back and wait.  " He looked up at her and smiled.

She gazed back with a guarded, suspicious expression.

He nodded, as though they'd made some agreement, then picked up the
notepad.  Almost as an afterthought, which it certainly wasn't, he
added, "But the object is to collar Winslow.  And that's it.  Got
it?"

Charlie was right: charm was definitely his weak suit.  She didn't say
anything.

He turned and met her gaze.  "

" Agreed?  "

She still didn't speak.  Her lips were compressed into a thin line that
strangely didn't detract from her appeal but somehow enhanced it.

"Agreed, Kelsey?"  he repeated, adding her name, compelling her to
answer him in the affirmative.  When she remained silent, her eyes
sliding away, he said, "With what we know about him in prison, what he
said and his shaking the tails, if he shows up here this time, we'll be
more than able to prove to any judge what he's capable of.  They'll
lock him up and throw away the key."

"All I have is cereal.  Is that okay?"

John had to blink at the abrupt change of subject.  And he hated
cereal.  He was a bacon- or steak-and-eggs man.  Aqd she was avoiding
the issue.  She was pulling the same trick on him he'd used on her the
night before, that she'd used on him before that.

"Cereal's fine," he said in his best imitation of enthusiasm Eating
rabbit food was just punishment for trying to force her to see reality
so early in the day.  Or was it punishment for the kiss she'd obviously
enjoyed every bit as much as he had?  If it was punishment, it was
mighty excessive.

"Cream or milk?"  she asked.

He smiled.  Maybe she wasn't all that uncomfortable, he thought.  " "
Oh..  cream, " he said slowly, deliberately, waiting for her to look at
him.

Chapter 5

qlsey felt the blush painfully burn her cheeks, her neck.  She thought,
rather incoherently, that John's smile was one of his best features,
and even as she felt her own lips curve in response, she tried
resolutely hardening her heart against him.  He seemed intent on
teasing her this morning.  It didn't seem right that he should do so.
It smacked of an intimacy that didn't exist between them.  It made her
want to lower her ever-present guard.

"So, what is your plan, besides waiting?"  she asked, setting a bowl on
the counter and filling it with chunks of granola and raisins.  She
liberally splashed cream over the oereal, taking some pleasure at the
sharp look of distaste on his face.  Two could play at teasing, she
thought, and only later realized how easily she'd succumbed to his
assumption of intimacy.

She picked up a dishrag and swiped at the counter almost angrily.  She
looked up to find him grinning again.  She wished she understood that
smile, wished it didn't conjure so few memories, so many different
yearnings.

"That's the plan.  Just wait."  He spooned a mouthful of granola into
his mouth and chewed it slowly, his expression one of sharp distaste.

"Can't we just go public and get him here sooner?"  - "Or scare him
off," he said after swallowing with a grimace.  "I thought of that last
night.  But it doesn't wash, because if we scare him off, he might wait
six months, or even a year and come around when we're not ready for
him."

Kelsey withheld a shiver at the thought.  She was also aware of the
mistaken pronoun he'd used-we.  If they scared him off now, she would
either be alone or having had to start over somewhere else.  Either way
it would be a Kelsey -loses-again scenario.

She couldn't help but feel a little sorry for John trying to down a
breakfast he obviously hated, though she'd have to remember that, then
reminded herself that it wouldn't matter , a few days, a week, and he'd
be gone.  She hardened her heart.  She hadn't asked him here.  "And
what will hap " We'll get him.  "

"No, I mean afterward.  He'll come here, you'll nab him, and if he
doesn't kill me-or shoot at one of you guys-he'll get slapped on the
wrist for violating the standing restraining order.  And he'll come
back.  What then, John?"  When he only looked at her, she asked more
pointedly, "What happens then?  "

"We'll get him again."

"And then what?  Another move, another town, another death, another
life to start all over again?  Or will it be a case of third time's the
charm for Bill, that he'll finally get me?"

"We'll get him," he said calmly.

Kelsey sighed.  Three years ago she'd hung on John's every assurance.
Now she knew all too well what those assurances were worth.

"Not unless you really get him.  Not unless he's not going to be around
to ever come back again," she said.

-John just looked at her.  There it was again, that dark threat in her
voice.  He ached to tell her he understood.  How could he not?  He'd
thought the same thing a thousand times himself.  Anyone in his
business had.  But it wasn't the sameq , they had to play it by the
rules.

"If you don't plan to get rid of him once and for all there's nothing
you can do for me, John.  Get in your car and go on back to your wife.
I can take care of myself now."  qqI'm not married anymore, remember? "
he said, as if that was the only important thing to tell her.

Her back stiffened.  "Oh, that's right.  I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he said equally stiffly.

She didn't say anything and John wondered if she was mulling over the
implications in what he'd said.  "We'll get him, Kelsey," he said
finally.  "It's only a matter of time."

Her eyes blazed at him.  "And it'll only be a matter of time until he's
out again and coming after me again.  No, q John.  Running isn't the
answer.  Staging my death isn't the answer.  Not this time.  Not ever
again.  As they say in the old

Westerns, this world ain't big enough for the two of us.  It's him or
me.  That's the only way to end this once and for all.  and I'll tell
you something, I'm putting my money in my corner.  "

John stared at her, drank in her determination, her anger , the
implacable stance, the no-guts-no-glory attitude, and had to bite back
a hearty good-for-you.  What she wanted was against the law, the law he
was sworn to uphold

"Okay," he said, not saying anything really.

Surely she knew he wasn't going to walk away.  She could try driving
him off all she wanted, but it wasn't going to work.  And he wasn't
about to hand her over to some other agent, although a part of him half
wanted to.  But that part wasn't the agent half of him, it was only the
man beneath.

However, there was no way he could accept her him-or-me attitude.  But
with time-and he had precious little of that he might be able to talk
some reason into her.

The trouble was, using a hellish sort of logic, she made perfect sense.
She was right.  With a man like Winslow, it would always be just a
matter of time until he was free to come and kill her.  In the meantime
he could haunt her every waking moment.

John's very nature wanted to applaud her, wanted to grab her tense,
shaking shoulders and whirl her around in some mad triumphant dance.
You're right, he wanted to yell.  Let's get the bastard.  It would be
justice at its most extreme Only the problem with extreme justice was
that it bred extreme injustice.

But aside from her all-or-nothing attitude, John was feeling an
irrational stab of jealousy All the passion in Kelsey was being
expended on her worthless, hell-bent husband Not on one hardened,
never-get-involved agent who was still reeling from a single taste of
her.

"Okay, Kelsey.  Have it your way.  Keep your damned anger Feed it if
you have to.  Whatever it takes.  But I'm staying here with you.  And
we're going to nab Winslow my way."

"No."

"Yes.  There are no options here.  This isn't a gestalt session This is
martial law.  And you have to live by the rules."

"This is my house, therefore we're going to live by my rules, " she
said almost truculently.

He smiled.  He couldn't help it.  "You're right, it's your house," he
said, not agreeing to her calling the shots, but to the ownership of
her home.

"You'd agree to that?"

"Yes."  How could he not?  It was her house.

"Whyq"

Come on, John, he thought.  For once in your life, pull some
razzle-dazzle out of your hat.  But he couldn't, it simply wasn't in
him.  "Because, Kelsey, while I sure don't agree with your him-or-me
attitude, I have to admit, Winslow's a wild card.  He doesn't fit any
hole the system can find for him."

He noted the glimmer of triumph in her eye and continued without pause.
"However, that system's all we've got.  And as long as I can draw
breath, we're going to play by the law."

"It's the very law you love so much that lets a man like Bill get away
with the things he does."

John couldn't help raising his hand to his forehead.  He wanted to
shake some reason into her, wished she didn't make so much sense. "It's
not that simple, Kelsey.  Nothing is black-and-white.  There's shades
of gray.  You can't simply dismiss the law as if it were an
inconvenient evil."

"Why not?  Bill did."  "

" And he went to prison for it.  "

"But he's out now, isn't he?  And we both know what he wants."

"You," John said.  And the minute the word came out of his mouth, John
knew that in one very real respect he was like Bill Winslow.  He, too,
wanted Kelsey.  Badly.  But in a very different way.

"You're here to guarantee he's not going to succeed this time?  "

Hell.  There weren't any guarantees.  But he felt she'd definitely
challenged everything he stood for, everything he was, so he couldn't
exactly say that.  Instead he said, "He , y q" didn't pull it off last
time, hone.  Remember

She shrugged, the consummate tough cookie under fire.  Somehow instead
of appearing nonchalant, insouciant, all she looked was plain old
scared.  John wanted to reach across and grab her, pull her into his
arms and cradle her.  But he didn't.  He couldn't.  He'd comforted her
once and damn near drowned in her need.  And in the ache she inspired
in him.

But it seemed to him now that, in her eyes, it must have seemed he had
walked out on her.  She was as much a product of his making as that of
the justice system or her horror of an ex-husband.  He had led her to
expect that she could lean on him, could trust him.  And she must have
believed he'd simply used her, kissed her like some woman-in-every port
jerk.

And he'd done it again.  Kissed her and then turned abruptly to
business.  What kind of a guy was he?  He didn't think he wanted an
answer to that.

Because the truth was, he'd run from her.  And he still wanted to run,
as far and as fast as he could go.  For she still reminded him of
things he'd really never known, things such as honor and
responsibility, those intangible somethings that spelled home and
honesty and involvement.  Things that comprised need, things that would
complicate his life and make him feel he would let her down again.

She sighed and turned away from him as if she'd been reading his mind.
Her head bent, and he was pierced by the very loneliness of her stance.
Was she crying?  Her arms lifted and wrapped around her chest, as
though she were hugging herself.

"I'm sorry, Kelsey," he said.  And he felt he was apologizing for far
more than a mistaken kiss three years ago, than having admitted he
still wanted her.  He was apologizing for Bill Winslow, for every time
the man had lied to her, stolen from her, used the back of his hand to
teach her a lesson.

"I'm sorrier than I can say."  And at this, he wasn't sure if he was
apologizing for what she'd had to live through or for being a "sorry"
excuse for a rescue.  He went on swiftly, "But I'm here for you: '

Her silence lent his words greater import than he might have intended.
They echoed in his own ears, forcing him to realize that for once in
his life he was actually asking someone to let him be involved.  The
thought scared the living daylights out of him.  He wished he could
modify the offer, retract it somehow.

"You don't owe me anything," she said.  Her voice was low and muffled.
"" You're wrong, Kelsey.  "

"What do you owe me?"  she asked.

"I owe you the truth," he said.  And suddenly he knew they weren't
talking about Winslow anymore.

"And what's that?"

John felt the future was rushing at him, that the past was slamming him
with the force of a crashing jet plane.  There were too many
realizations coming too fast, too hard.

"You don't have to answer," she said, and by saying it, demanded one
anyway.

Had he gone nuts?  He'd asked for this.  What on earth was it about her
that made him lose sight of the job, the case?  But damn it, it was her
life they were arguing about.  Maybe if she heard the truth about what
he'd felt, what he'd thought three years ago, maybe then she'd give him
that modicum of trust he needed to keep her alive.  " " After I kissed
you that night three years ago..  I was scared spit less It didn't have
anything to do with Dayna.  That was on the rocks, anyway.  It had to
do with me.  I ran.  "

She was silent so long John was hoping he'd only imagined saying the
words.  And when she did finally answer, Jolm felt as if she'd jerked
the chair out from under him , spilling him onto the floor and further.
Far below.

"Well, I guess one good truth deserves another.  I was more than
halfway to falling for you, John."

John pushed away from the bar, knowing that nothing on earth could keep
him from her now.  The gritty feel of the cereal against his teeth
disappeared, the pain in his back was suddenly and miraculously gone.
The past receded and an entirely new present unfolded before him.  He
stepped around the bar, reaching for her.

She turned before he could take her into his arms.  The look in her
eyes, her next words, stopped him cold.  "But that was three years ago.
As the young kids say, that was then, and this is now."

If there had been tears in her eyes before, they were absent now.  Her
hot blue gaze met his.  "I'm a different person now, John."

"The fundamental beliefs can't change," he said hoarsely.  He'd never
wanted to believe anything so much in all his life.

"They can, too," she said.  "And I have.  If you can live with that...
you can stay."

"And if I said I couldn't live with that?"

"I'd say don't let the door hit you on your way out and write if you
get work."

Her words, the look on her face should have wounded him.  He knew that
was her intention, her purpose behind them.  Instead, as her anger had
the night before, they only served to rouse his own anger.  He wasn't
the kind of man who took it on the chin with a grin and a shrug.  And
his anger wasn't something he often dodged.

Everything about this new Kelsey, her stiffness, her coldness , her
obsession with her former husband, her callous dismissal of his
heartfelt confession, they all conspired to fire him up in a way he
hadn't experienced in years.  What he was feeling now made his last
night's anger seem like intermission at a Sunday school dance.

He stepped forward.  She didn't flinch at all.  She challenged him with
her eyes, her defiance.  He moved closer and closer, not threatening,
merely promising.  When he was less than a hand-span's width from her,
he stopped.  He fflrced her gaze to remain with him, and slowly,
achingly slowly, he held out his hand.

_ Extreme Jcqstice 103 Y:z She glanced down at the outstretched palm
almost fearfully "What am I agreeing to?"  she rasped.  "You don't
trust anything, do you, Kelsey?"  he asked, leaving his hand between
them.  He wanted to drive her to her knees, to make her beg for his
protection; he wanted to do anything to make her sorry for having made
him all but plea for letting him get involved in her life, for wanting
her in his, however briefly it would have to be.  But he was no
Winslow.  And even if he was mad enough to shove his fist through the
nearest cinder block wall, he would never ever take it out on a woman,
especially Kelsey.  He repeated his question slowly.  " " Do you,
Kelsey?  Trust anything?  " " Not anything, or anyone," she answered
finally.  " Fair enough.  Neither do I. " " So, what am I agreeing to?
" she asked again, her voice stronger this time, sultry now, steady.  "
The cold-bloodiest partnership in history," he answered H1s hand still
stretched between them.  He wished angrily that she would just take it
so he could pump it furiously and let her go.  More than that, however,
he wished he could just drag her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
" And what does that mean, exactly?  " she asked.  He would have
thought her calm, except for the telltale pulse in her throat.  " I
mean that you're going to have to trust somebody.  You're going to have
to trust me.  I mean that we're going to stay here, work together, try
not to kill each other in the process.  and we're going to nail
Winslow.  Once and for all.  " She searched his eyes for a long moment,
trying, he thought, to find a modicum of truth, a measure of someth1ng
she could trust, then he felt her cold hand sli into his.  " John
Chandler.  you've got yourself a deal.  p

And as she returned the pressure of his hand, he suddenly didn't feel
angry anymore.  But he devoutly wished he did.

upstairs, away from him, trying to feel some sense of her own presence
in the house that no longer seemed quite hers, Kelsey wondered if she
wasn't dreaming.  Nothing in the past twenty-four hours had seemed
real.

One minute she'd been standing outside her back door, gazing at the
stars and wishing for a richer life, and the next, FBI agent John
Chandler had knocked on her door, moved into her house, kissed her
mindless and offered her the bargain of a lifetime.

He was going to stay.  The rest of the bargain didn't seem to really
matter, he'd offered her himself.  What more could a person ask?

That all depended, she thought, with her now customary caution, on what
that offer really meant.  Lots, she decided His staying in a place
didn't mean safety for her, didn't necessarily confer security.
Conscious of the need to subjugate some of her thoughts, she resolved
that as of this minute she'd have to regard him as an extra mouth to
feed, an extra load of laundry, another detriment to a peaceful night's
sleep-for myriad reasons.

If she was honest with herself, which she had to be in these bizarre
circumstances, she wasn't at all eager to see him leave.  And she had
to admit this, knowing what he did to her insides.

On the plus side, there was a lot of truth in the adage about safety in
numbers and if she had a number to choose from, John's would be it.  He
was the consummate FBI agent-tough, resilient, capable.  He was not
only bright, he was remarkably fast on his feet and, perhaps more
important , a very handy man with a weapon.

She'd gone through extensive training, but John was a specialist. She'd
spent the past couple of years training other victimized women on how
to spot a potential Mr.  Wrong, whereas John arrested the bad guys of
the world.  Essentially , she was a prepared amateur while he was a
professional

So having his help was a good thing.

On the surface.

On the minus side, there was entirely too much beneath that
thin-skinned covering that made up her life.  She quldn't pretend that
when he'd kissed her she'd pulled back, rejecting him.  That wasn't how
it had been at all.

Three years ago, or now.

She had kissed him in return.  Had kissed him as if there was no
tomorrow, as if yesterday had been a mere prelude to passion, as if the
present were endless.

She wished she could tell herself that it was simply a matter of being
lonely for so long, that loneliness had become a natural state of
affairs and that a single kiss, a single embrace by any man, would have
made her turn to pure jelly.  But it wasn't true.  Not in John's case.
Not in hers.

The truth was much more complex than that.  He'd been the last man to
hold her, the last man, perhaps the only one, with whom she felt safe.
And she'd responded to him, then, and even more so now, with all the
pent-up craving of anyone who had gone through a life-changing
transformation.

She had told him she was different, and so she was.  But she wasn't
altogether a different person.  He had been right when he'd said the
fundamental values couldn't change.  _ Was that why she had responded
to him, because he was right and fundamentally she was the same?  Or
was it simply propinquity?  Or was it that he was probably one of the
few people on earth who knew her real name?

It was all of those things, she thought sadly.  And more.

She could hear him now, downstairs, glued to the telephone , scribbling
notes on the pad he'd found what seemed days earlier in her highboy.
Had it only been an hour ago that he'd held her in his arms, making her
want too many things she couldn't even name anymore?

She'd gone upstairs when he'd first picked up the telephone , thinking
to give him privacy, wishing to be away from his sheer male presence
for a while.  And she'd found herself in his room-her guest room-trying
to sort out her scattered feelings.  It didn't help.  He might as well
have been in the room.  She could feel him, could smell his unique and
utterly enticing scent, could almost taste him.

He was untidy.  She'd forgotten that small detail if she'd ever noticed
it.  She picked up his previous day's clothing, which he'd dropped to
the floor.  Folding them, she couldn't resist pressing her face to the
back of his shirt.  If any chemist ever replicated that exact scent,
there wouldn't be a woman on earth who could resist buying a bottle of
it for her mate, she thought a little wildly.

She set his things down on the chair near the window, tried thinking of
them as merely clothing, covering, but saw them on him all too easily,
saw them discarded even more easily.

He'd wadded the washcloth on the side of the sink of the small guest
bathroom.  It, too, carried the scent of him, the scent of her soap,
her shampoo.  After holding it to her face, feeling like a teenager
with hormones going berserk, she primly folded the cloth and draped it
over the side rail.

She felt as if she were prying into the secret life of John Chandler,
touching the things he'd worn, the items he'd touched, the socks, the
pants, the soap he'd pressed to his skin.  The intimacy of the
inanimate articles made her feel awkward, and at the same time made her
feel pleasantly languid.

She wondered if he might feel the same way staying in her house.  Would
he even think in that fashion?  It seemed unlikely He was too much the
tough agent, the man on the road, the lone stranger who would always
find a way to ride off into the sunset rather than find a place to hang
that white hat the good guys always wore.

She pulled the covers of the bed into place and bent to retrieve his
overnight bag.  She told herself later that she hadn't intended to look
inside, that she'd inadvertently picked the bag up by one handle and in
doing so, had accidentally spilled some of the contents to the plush
carpet.

Luckily the carpet was thick, she thought, swiftly grabbing the slim
laptop computer and setting it carefully back into the bag.  Another
plastic and metal electronic device had spilled free, also, and she
placed it atop the computer.  Clean socks, a spy novel, and a
hard-bound journal were all that reqziained on the floor.  She put away
the socks and the novel and was absently reaching for the journal when
she recognized the handwriting on the front of it.

An icy chill spread through her veins.  A knot formed in the pit of her
stomach.  A journal with Bill's handwriting on it.  What was John doing
with Bill Winslow's journal in his overnighter?

Slowly, feeling her heart beginning to pound in even slower painful
beats, she straightened.  She held the journal in one hand, lifted his
overnighter with the other.  She set his bag down on the desk and
because her legs felt suddenly weak, took the desk chair for herself.

Opening the journal to the first page, she started reading She had to
read the first few paragraphs over twice before her eyes would allow
the meaning to sink into her mind.  She turned the pages, one after
another, feeling herself grow colder by the word, sicker by the phrase.
She had to cover her mouth to keep a pitiful moan locked inside.

She thought she'd known the worst about Bill Winslow.  She'd been
cheated by him, abused by him both physically and mentally.  He'd even
hired someone to kill her, had valued her life at only ten thousand
dollars.  But this, this outpouring of a diseased mind, this was worse
than anything she could ever have imagined.

In this journal in this literary rival of anything the Marquis de Sade
might have penned, Bill had described in graphic detail the various
tortures he would subject her to if he ever found her.  When he found
her.  q" " We've got trouble, " John said from the hallway.

She looked up dully and watched him round the doorjamb , step into the
room.

"Winslow's left a..."  he trailed off, stopping.  Assessing

If he'd come into the room fifteen minutes earlier, she would have
whirled in embarrassment for having been caught in his quarters,
touching his things, drinking in his scent.  But she had read the
journal now.

John's eyes narrowed as he took in what she held in her numb hands.
"Oh, God, Kelsey, I didn't want you to see that."

She tried understanding his words, but they seemed to be coming from
somewhere far away, some other planet maybe.

She scarcely saw him move, he crossed the room so swiftly.  He plucked
the journal from her hands and tossed it in the direction of his
overnighter.  He took her cold, cold hands in his.  He knelt beside
her, his legs on either side of hers like a shield, like a solid wall
of warmth.

"Look at me, Kelsey."

Apathetically, she did as he asked.

"Now listen."  He drew a deep breath before proceeding.  "That diary
doesn't change anything."

She wanted to believe him.  She clung to his gaze as if she would drown
without the lifeline his eyes were offering.

"It's just words.  The words of a sick man.  You're strong, Kelsey.
Stronger than any woman I know.  He can't touch you now, you said it
yourself, you've put your money in your corner.  I would too.  My
money's on you.  Now, forget about that diary.  Let it go.  It's only
evidence, that's all.  Just another piece of material the D.A. will use
to lock him up and throw away the key."  "Really?"

" " Really, Kelsey.  " " I mean, you'd really put your money in my
corner?  " " I already have," he said.  " I'm here.  " John smiled,
relaxed his tight grip on her fingers.  She was amazed to feel them now
when moments earlier she'd felt as though she was only trying to make
contact.  I'm here, he'd said.  Yes, he was.  However temporarily.  She
returned the pressure of his fingers and his smile broadened, the hard
line of his jaw softening somewhat.  He rested his arms on her legs,
not releasing her hands.  He looked up at her with an
are-you-all-right-now question in his eyes.  She didn't know the
answer.  She wasn't sure she was all right.  Everything was not all
better now.  Seeing Bill's hatred for her spelled out in black and
white, having John leaning against her, asking her to lean on him,
telling her that all that vitriol amounted to was evidence against
Bill, somehow all conspired to make her feel snared in the past.  She
tried seeing from John's perspective and found that too daunting.  All
the journal represented to him was a little dragon in his knight
errantry.  See, honey?  It's just a little hitty old thing, and can't
hurt you.  Nothing to be scared about.  John could look at it that way,
could really believe it, because this was only a job to him, not his
life.  It wasn't his body Bill had carved up so lovingly in those
pages, it wasn't his mind that Bill wanted to destroy.  Those words,
the careful construction of the details, the promises, the threats,
worked to steal the past three years of a new life away from her.  And
John was trying to tell her that it wasn't important, that it didn't
matter.  Of course, it mattered.  And it mattered that he was
straddling her, open to her in all ways but emotionally, protecting her
with his body if not his heart.  That this was unfair, she couldn't
admit right then. Because she didn't dare admit that she needed him
right now, wanted him to play the knight, hold her in his arms and
murmur pretty lies that everything would be okay, that he would take
care of everything for her.  And she didn't dare acknowledge how much
such empty promises would mean at this particular moment.

She asked him how he came by the journal and he told her.

"Did the parole board see this journal?"  she asked after a long
pause.

He hesitated, then nodded.

"Then how could they release him?"  she asked.

He shook his head, looking miserable.  "I don't know, Kelsey.  I wasn'
ting on the decision.  The Bureau forwarded our recommendation, but I
guess that didn't count for much."

She felt a notch of the tension ease from her shoulders.  Why should it
matter so much that the FBI had tried to intercede on her behalf, or at
the very least, had tried keeping Bill behind bars?  She didn't know
why, she only knew that it did.

If Kelsey had any idea of how much he wanted to take her into his arms
right now, John thought, she'd probably slap him.  And she'd be right
to do so.

When he'd stepped into that room and saw her holding that damnable
diary, all the color gone from her face, her eyes large with shock and
pain, he hadn't even thought, he'd just gone to her.

He wished he weren't on assignment, wished he wasn't a so-called peace
officer.  He wanted to rip Bill Winslow into a million pieces with his
bare hands.  He wanted to shoot the man down, empty his gun into him
and stand there and watch the life draining from him, the poison
spilling from his body.

And he wanted to take Kelsey into his arms, kiss her until her skin
flushed with dewy luster, love her until she forgot

Extreme Justice Ill

Winslow's hatred, couldn't think of anything but him, couldn't want
anything but his touch, his lips.

He wanted her to touch him back, to still the anger in him, to steal
the fear that had always been his guard with her, with everyone.  And
he wanted a respite, a breather from thinking about every detail of
this assignment.  Because if he slipped up on this one, Kelsey would be
dead, and that he couldn't bear to think about.

He'd come upstairs looking for her to tell her they had trouble.  Bill
Winslow hadn't merely shaken his FBI tails, he'd left a trail of mayhem
behind him as he went.  At this point, they had no proof-no concrete
proof, anyway-that it was Winslow who had killed a medical supplies
salesman in West Virginia, or the physician the salesman was visiting
that day.  But the FBI did know that someone had used a cocktail
waitress's credit card in Philadelphia, and that the man who had
apparently taken it from her purse fit Winslow 's description.

And they did know that someone had killed a beautician in the back room
of a beauty shop in Denver after she'd apparently conducted a dye job
in the early morning hours.  All the money was gone from the safe,
though the investigating agent doubted the owner's estimate of the
amount of cash in the storage compartment.

Then there was a Dr.  Johnson-the same name as that of the murdered
physician's-who had boarded a plane from Denver to Dallas/ Fort Worth.
A check of all hotel registers was under way now, but those were both
big cities and the information could take hours to collect.  There was
also no guarantee that Winslow would still be using the doctor's
name.

He could have told her all this a few minutes ago.  He would have.  But
she had read that damned diary and tough cookie

Kelsey had been lost in those pages.

John thought if he had anything specific to hate Winslow for, it was
this, stripping Kelsey of her hard-won fieroeness.  She'd earned it at
a very hard school and John would be damned if anyone was going to
steal it from her now.

Lifting a hand to her chin, he made her look directly at him.  Her eyes
seemed lost, confused.  Too many hurts, too -much of a life spent
running from Bill Winslow.  Her face was pale and her lips trembled.

Touching her at all had been a mistake.  Her extreme vulnerability
tugged too sharply at him, made him want to give her comfort-and more.
Meeting her troubled gaze made him wonder if he could work to rouse the
anger so necessary to her now.

"It'll be all right," he said.  He'd told her this before and thought
the words lame back then.  They were equally ineffective today.

Her lips moved slightly, as if she were framing some question.  Her
eyes, still linked with his, asked a thousand questions, all of them
painful.  He couldn't stand to sea this.

"Damn it, Kelsey," he muttered.  "This shouldn't be happening."  Even
as the words left his mouth, they surprised him.  Had he meant that
Bill Winslow shouldn't be , g chasing her, or that he, John, shouldn t
be wantin to kiss her again?  Kiss her until he'd erased all memory of
Winslow and his terrible hatred.

As if reading his mind, she leaned forward, close enough that he could
feel her warm breath, could drink in that delicate lemony scent.

"You don't hate me, do you, John?"  she whispered.  It wasn't an
invitation.  It was the heartbreaking question of a woman who had been
used too harshly, treated to terror instead of love.

"No, hating you would be impossible," he said, and knew he meant that
with every fiber of his being.  Hating Kelsey would be a contradiction
of terms, a physical, emotional impossibility.

He should have pulled back.  He knew that, but realized, at the same
time, that he was incapable of such heroism.  There were limits to a
man's nobility.  Kelsey leaning into him was perhaps the most severe
test of his determination to remain at arm's length.  A test he
reluctantly, but gladly, failed as he raised his lips to hers.

She trembled for a moment, seeming to hesitate even as she pressed
against him.  Swiftly, her arms encircled his shoulders and she slid
from the chair into his welcoming embrace.

"God, what you do to me," he growled.  Raking his hands through her
hair, he swept them down her back, pulling her sharply against him.
Taking her slight weight against him fully, he straddled her, letting
her slide down to rest in the V between his legs.  Kneeling now,
fiercely crushing her to him, demanding that she eradicate her fear,
needing her to think of him, not Winslow, John gave in to the kiss,
unable to stop, unable to listen to the inner alarm bells screaming at
him.

She responded to him with an almost desperate intensity.  And while
he'd wanted her to forget Winslow, had, in some complicated
subconscious way, wanted to be the instrument of that amnesia, he found
he didn't particularly like this new role.  How would Kelsey look at
this breach of confidence when she wasn't feeling frightened?  How
would he?

She'd never know how reluctantly he pulled himself away.  She would
never know, and he'd certainly never tell her, that he was trembling so
much he was literally shaking inside.  But Kelsey needed his strength,
not his desire.  She needed her anger back, not his kisses.

He hid his desire, his confusion over what the kiss had done to him.
"Better now?"  he asked, hating himself for the callous tone, but doing
it deliberately.

As he'd feared, her eyes seemed to flatten, the soft light in them
fading too swiftly to indicate anything but hurt.  But as he'd
hoped-planned-that softness was soon replaced with a bright blaze of
pure fury.

"What happened to that anger you told me you're eating for breakfast?"
he chided, holding her at arm's length.

Swiftly, he pushed to his feet.  He dusted his pant legs as if nothing
extraordinary had occurred.  If he were to meet her eyes now, she'd see
the lie, see how much he'd been affected by her kiss, by her need.

"I-don't care if you'd rather sit here and mope about some words
scrawled in a notebook, but it seems to me we've got better things to
do with our time, " he said, turning his back on her.

He heard her sharp intake of anger.  " " So, if you've had enough
whining about this, can we get back to work?  "

He hoped that after she secured her armor of anger back in place she
would remember that he'd held her hands, that his kiss had come from
the very depths of his longing for her, that he'd bled a little for
her, swallowed every desire he'd ever had about her, about Winslow, and
hoped that she'd understand he was goading her now for her own
preservation

"That journal doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"  she asked
coldly.  He didn't move.  If he turned around, she'd be able to see
just how much it meant, how much he despised

Winslow for writing it, and himself for seemingly abandoning her to her
own terror.

He shrugged.  Oh, Kelsey, he thought, if only you knew.

"It'll make some juicy evidence.  That's about it."

"You can really be a bastard, you know that?"  she asked.

He shrugged again.  "The name doesn't matter.  The job does."

She rose without speaking, and left the room without looking at him.

But John could see the rigidity in her shoulders, the stiffness in her
spine.  Her anger was back in place, she could be tough again.  Her
guards were up, and her resolve high.

So why did he feet like the bad guy?

Chapter 6

Thtqrsday, November 11 12: 45 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas qelsey hung up the
phone, rested her head on the receiver for a moment.  The plastic
device was hot against her brow.  Her ear burned from having been on
the phone so long.  Was this day never going to end?

John hadn't given her a chance to wallow in the fear the jouroal
sparked in her.  Nor had he acknowledged the anger he'd roused just as
easily, a fact that, oddly enough, didn't upset her.  She found it
easier to be around John when angry than when fearful.  She only wished
anger could override whatever el>emistry it was he possessed.

As soon as she'd finally come back downstairs, he'd handed her a list
of things to do, including canceling all apgointments , all meetings
and all support groups.  She had started to protest, but a single slow
look had stopped her cold.  And fanned her resentment even more.

He told her that with each call she made, she was to garner promises of
silence, to have whoever she was talking to agree to maintain complete
discretion about her, but to call her immediately if anyone were to
contact any of her friends or students with questions about her.

He was right to cancel everything, to be so careful.  But sfie didn't
have to like it.  In fact, she hated it.  She was on the run again,
even if she was in her own house.  She might as well have agreed to the
safe house.  Except she wouldn't have felt safe there.  Here she knew
every noise, every single cause of whatever might go bump in the night.
Somewhere else, a whole new set of noises, twigs on windows, creaky
floors, would have driven her crazy.

Somehow, in her own home, with her things around her, she felt in
control.  In another house, another place, nervous , scared and out of
her element, she would once again have had to trust her entire life and
well-being to this one man.  And while he wouldn't be a whit less
alluring anywhere else, in her own home she knew the place well enough
to be able to avoid him at least part of the time.

She sighed and checked the list he'd given her.  She had to smile a
little bitterly; he had even listed gardeners, as if she had one, let
alone a plural.  Did he think people on the Witness

Protection Program had the kind of money that would allow the hiring of
a gardener?  She did have a cleaning lady, however, who came in once a
week.  It seemed a pity she'd have to cancel that, especially with Mr.
Tidy in the house; and Tonita would be crushed-she'd probably think she
was fired permanently.

It was strange, she thought.  Until John showed up, she'd thought of
her life as one of being in hiding, constantly on the lookout for
danger.  She'd followed every bit of advice she gave out to her support
groups, her seminar classes.

Then he'd begun his lists of people she should contact , had
wire-tapped her phone, arranged people around the house to watch her
place, and proceeded to mention the myriad ways her life was easy to
trace.  There was her Monday grocery trips, her Wednesday dry cleaning
pick-ups, the once-every-six-weeks trip to the beautician for a trim,
Monday night support-group meetings and all her classes -all of which
met at regularly scheduled times.  It made her feel she'd been
amazingly careless, shockingly open to possible danger.

She made the call to Tonita and sank back into the oak dining chair,
glad to feel the wood biting into her shoulders She was tired, felt
drained and was hungry.  Chinese food would be good, or a pizza.  She
wondered if he would object to carry-out.  The groceries she'd ordered
through his team of observers wouldn't arrive until much later that
afternoon

"I'm finished," she called to the other room.  "There's nothing left on
my list."  She almost added "master" to her statement but decided that
even a small gihe would seem a friendly gesture.  And they were better
off this way, him believing her angry, totally cool, utterly aloof.
That way she didn't have to meet his eyes, didn't have to worry about
losing herself in his gaze.

Even if it was driving her crazy.

"Did you hear me?  I'm all through with the phone."

Almost as though taunting her, the phone rang.  She reached for it
automatically, and before she could even lift it, John had silently
crossed the room and lifted the lid of the little device she'd spilled
from his bag earlier.  It was now set up on the bar next to the wall
phone.

After the screen flashed a series of lights and beeped a couple of
times, he nodded at her and pointed to the receiver He didn't take his
eyes from the screen.  His concentration alone raised her fears.  Could
it be Bill on the line?  Had he found her so quickly?

She lifted it cautiously, her heart thudding.  "Hello?"  Did her voice
sound as breathless as she thought it did?

"Kel?  It's me, Jilly."

John looked as though he might go through the roof.  He all but slammed
the lid down on his tracing device.  "Tell her to get Jenkins on the
line" Kelsey did as he asked and handed the phone over to him.

He listened for several seconds, then snapped, "Hell, I don't care.
Tell her she's been blabbing so much the Russians have decided to
recruit her as a spy."  He listened a second or two.  "Tell her the FBI
is seriously considering cutting her tongue out as a penalty."

Kelsey had to turn away from him swiftly so he wouldn't see her sudden
grin.  She bit her lip trying to hold it in.  She tolu herself that
John Chandler had three noticeably irritating habits.  One, he snuck
around like a ghost; two, he could rouse her to almost apoplectic ire;
and three, he could make her w ant to laugh even in a towering rage.

She didn't dare meet John's eyes now.  If she did, with her anger gone
and her humor alive, she'd be sunk.  She'd slip into the depths of that
warm gaze and think a million and one thoughts that were totally
inappropriate to the situation at hand.

He hung up and without saying anything, went back to whatever he'd been
doing in the exercise room.  She followed to see what he was up to in
there.  He was half behind a curtain, fiddling with the locks on her
windows.

She frowned.  "What are you doing?"

"Setting up alarms," he said around something in his teeth.

"There are bars on the windows," she pointed out.  " " Those are
decorative bars.  They look tough, but a pair of good bolt cutters
would snip right through them.  "

She didn't say anything.  She thought of the price she'd paid for those
decorative, cut table bars.  After this was all over, if it ended with
her intact, she was going af:er the guy who sold those bars to her.

"How do the alarms work?"

Extreme Jcistice 119

"Anything jars this window frame, or if the glass shatters , it'll set
off the alarm."

"They look pretty small.  Will they be loud enough?"

"

" Want to hear one?  "

"

A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream rent the air.  It wasn't a woman's
scream, but the shriek of a half-dozen fire engines racing toward a
five-alarm fire.  The sound ceased as abruptly as it began.

"Loud enough?"  John asked.

"Yq," she answered coldly.  She could still hear the ringing in her
ears.  "You are undoubtedly the most-"

"Good thing we remembered to cancel your maid.  If she'd dusted these
windows, it'd probably take us a week tory her from the ceiling."

Again she had to turn her back on him so he wouldn't see the smile.
"Are you rigging every window in the house?"

"Not today.  I don't have enough with me.  I'll do the downstairs and
the side windows upstairs.  I'll fill in the rest later: '

Kelsey turned back around in time to see him move to another window.
When had her anger with him slipped away?  She couldn't say.  Perhaps
it was working with him , or maybe it was while watching him work.  He
was so very good at what he did.  So purposeful, so quietly capable.

She wished suddenly that he could see her giving a seminar or teaching
basic self-defense techniques to her students She was good at what she
did, too.  Why did she always have to meet up with him when she was
running?

She sighed.  Was there ever likely to be a reason for being around him
other than running?

"Are we going to eat pretty soon?"  he asked.  Again he sounded as
though he was talking around a mouthful of something.

"You sound like you're eating now," she said.

120 Extreme Justcce qtreme Justice 121

He didn't answer.  He started humming the tune of a fastfood commercial
instead.

Kelsey smiled, and for the first time since he'd arrived she realized
she wasn't frightened, wasn't nervous, wasn't anxrous She was actually
standing in the doorway of her exercise room, watching him install mini
alarms conscious of feeling relaxed.

This was his doing, she thought.  She wanted to tell him she wasn't
angry with him any longer, hadn't been for quite a while, in fact.  By
the time she'd made the first few phone calls, she had reviewed their
conversation upstairs and had come to the conclusion that he had
incited her anger on purpose.

She didn't want to analyze why he had done it, it was enough to know
that he hadn't left her in that box of fear Bill's words had built
around her.

Like his little offhand remarks that made her want to laugh out loud,
his understanding of her anger amazed and worried her.  And made her
feel slightly off-balance.  It seemed to be saying that he understood
her And she wasn't quite sure what that might mean, now or in the long
run.

They'd entered a bargain, they had shaken on it.  Was he trying to
imply that he considered them partners now?  That he would really and
truly be there for her and expected the same in return?

She'd been looking after herself, all by herself, for so long she
wasn't certain she knew how to delegate any of that authority to anyone
else.  She trained others, gave her support in whatever problem they
might be having, but had she relied on anyone other than herself in the
past three years?

She realized she hadn't.  John was right to ask if she trusted
anything, and she'd answered honestly when she'd said not anything or
anyone.

But he'd kissed her, held her hands this morning, hurting for her.
After the shock had passed, she could recall in minute detail his
warming of her numbed hands, the feel of his legs against hers, the
crease in his brow, the plea in his eyes.

And she'd seen something she was fairly certain he hadn't even
acknowledged.  Holding her hands, apologizing for the journal, he
hadn't tried to keep the fragile, little Kelsey, he'd deliberately and
purposefully cajoled her back into her new self.  He may have arrived
at her home expecting the former , but he needed the latter, wanted her
the way she'd become Accepted her that way.

"What's for lunch?"  he asked, crossing to the last window in the
exercise room.  He didn't look around at her, only stuffed a few screws
into his mouth and immediately set to work on the lock at the window's
midpoint.

"Granola," she said.  She left the room not bothering to hide the smile
this time.

Thccrsday, November Il 8:30p.  m. " Dallas, Texas

Bill stretched his legs to the railing of the balcony outside his
tenth-story motel room.  The night was cold, but not cold enough to
make him want to go back inside.  He'd had enough of being inside to
last a lifetime.  He lit another cigarette and flicked the match over
the rail, smiling as the small flame sputtered out in descent.

Kelsey wasn't in Dallas.  She wasn't in Fort Worth, either He'd called
every hot line in the books, giving the big sob story about having hurt
his wife and needing help from somebody.  Counseling, something.  And
he'd called counseling service centers using his Johnson alias to ask
for referrals for a patient of his who needed support-group work.  To
all of them he'd mentioned hearing of a Kelsey person who he understood
was doing some fine work in personal growth development.

He'd even called that twit with the talk show.  She wouldn't give him
the number of the woman who had called in spilling the beans about
Kelsey.  If he had time, or if it still bothered him later, he would
teach that hostess a thing or two about manners.

But her refusal wouldn't slow him down much.

No Kelsey at this stage?  No problem.

That was all right.

He had time, because he was a man who understood the value of that
precious commodity.  And he had a purpose.  A man who fully understood
that he never intended to see the inside of a prison again, was a free
man indeed.  There was nothing he couldn't do.

And he had a handful of names to choose from.  Tonight he was a tired
salesman who would rather pay cash than even wait for the credit card
check.  With a weary smile for the benefit of the equally weary desk
clerk, he'd signed his name as John Chandler.  It seemed fitting
somehow.

There had been something between that guy and Kelsey.  He had seen it
at the trial.  It wasn't in the way they had looked at each other, it
was in the careful way they hadn't.  Bill had known.  Knew now.  He was
an expert on human behavior.

He was sure the FBI would have gotten to her by now.  But safe houses
were only safe from the little well-behaved citizens Anyone with brains
could find them.  And he had brains.

He'd underestimated her once, or her boyfriend, Chandler But he wasn't
a desperate man anymore.  No.  He was free, and he'd find her.

She was here in Texas somewhere.  He could feel it.  He could almost
taste it.  He blew out a cloud of smoke, watched it drift on the night
air.  Soon it mingled with the lights of the city, getting lost in the
glow.  Kelsey couldn't do the same.

For now maybe, and tomorrow.  But soon he'd be circling in, a hawk
after the prey that had too long eluded him.

Texas was big, but he was bigger.

Fqctreme Justcce 123

And the game was just beginning to get interesting.

Thursday, November Il 8:30p.  m. " Lubbock, Texas

John sat in one of the low-slung, exercise-room chairs, watching Kelsey
as she worked out.  She'd been at it for some twenty minutes and he was
the one who was feeling wrung uut, and certainly not from over
exertion

He had to tell her about Winslow's possible trail of murders , his
possible arrival in Dallas.  And had to confess that Winslow had eluded
every FBI checkpoint.  But how?

He didn't want to be the cause of her face paling, her eyes looking on
those shadows that underscored her fear.  He was jieartily sick of Bill
Winslow playing with her emotions, and even sicker over the notion that
he could do it all too well

And the truth was, he found her anger easier to deal with an her fear.
Her anger made her sharp, clear, responsive.  er fear drove her inside,
away from him, away from eve half smiled, thinking of the day.  Kelsey
had been cold unresponsive at best, but she'd done everything he'd d,
from cataloging her friends for him to outlining her he'd allowed him
to take over her life.  She'd made every he'd dictated, and even made
him a sandwich for lunch qd of the granola she'd threatened.  She'd
patiently in out a list of grocery needs and let the FBI shop for her.
hadn't complained when he'd wired her doorways and windows with small
alarm devices that triggered upon the qtest touch.  qit, thanks to him,
she had been as cold as ice all day.  q she'd refused a slice of the
pizza he'd called in for dinfixinq herself a bowl of rice instead.

However, after a day in which she poured ice on his every sentence, he
found himself wishing he could just tell her the truth, relax in the
here and now, forget the danger lurking outside the door, the danger
likely to be knocking someqime tomorrow or the next day.  But sitting
there watching her body gyrate in impossible twists and turns, making
his mouth dry with a thirst only she could quench, was driving him
crazy.

"Are you ever going to stop being mad at me?"  he asked when she lay
back on the floor and starting swinging her legs up and over her head.
How could she do that?

"I'm... not... mad... at you," she managed to get out in rhythm to her
amazing kicks.

"Could have fooled me," he said.

She didn't say anything, but rose to her feet and gave him a swift,
hard glance.  She dropped her hands to the floor.

"You'd ... know ... ill ... was ... mad," she panted starting to lift
first one leg, then the other, pointing her toes at the ceiling.

"I get it," he said.  "If you were mad, you'd talk to me, right?  You'd
join in a conversation, even add a word or two.  Right?  "

She didn't answer.  He thought he saw her lips quirk in a repressive
smile, however.  There might be hope yet.

She was still angry, but he'd prefer her throwing things at him,
verbally sparring with him, to this particular form of torture.  He had
already checked and double-checked the perimeters of her house.  The
mini alarms he'd installed were on, and the tiki torches out back were
blazing away, making her lawn look like an abandoned garden party.  The
phones were working, the lights were dimmed, curtains were drawn.  How
long could she keep moving that way?

He'd even chatted with the team outside via the radio more than once.
The second relief team was still in place at their stations, one in
back of her high adobe wall, one parked across the street, one probably
freezing his butt off

Justice l25

;;qvhile hanging on a telephone pole about a half a block down the
street and the fourth holed up in a recreational vehicle in the
neighbor's carport.

John would gladly have traded places with any of them at this
particular moment.  He was pretty sure any of them would have been
equally glad to be sitting in this cushy chair qvatching Kelsey's body
in action.

She moved as though each exercise had been choreoqaphed with her fluid
body in mind.  Hands to the floor, 'qack straight, toes tilted, feet
arched like a ballet dancer's, she stretched across the mat, lifting
one shapely leg at a time.  Her long black hair flipped forward,
exposing the gentle curve of her neck, the soft swell of her
shoulders.

Torture or not, he didn't move.

"You know what I'd like?"  he asked after a few more kicks.  q'No .
what .  q"

"A bowl of that delicious cereal."

She let out a small gasp, then, as if he'd pulled the plug on her, she
simply collapsed to the floor.  She lay on her stomach , her hands
sprawled out to the side.  Her entire body q:qhook and a low growling
chuckle resonated in the room.

John found himself grinning in a kind of dazed delight.  was a new side
to Kelsey, a side he'd never seen before.  'd seen her fearful,
tearful, and he'd seen her full of fire.  ql6krt he didn't think he'd
ever seen her laugh, just cut loose q d laugh.  Was that something that
came with her new 'qqound identity, her toughness?  Did terror stomp
out huGod , but she was beautiful.

ICqIsey lay on the floor, not even trying to conceal her daughter, and
even when it subsided, unable to stop her lips om curving into a silly
smile.  She'd read somewhere that good laugh burned up as many calories
as ten minutes of hard rowing.  If that were true, she'd just rowed
across the Potomac and back.

She rolled over to her side to look at John.  He was sitting in that
same chair he'd been in and out of half a dozen times that night.  The
chair was overlarge, but somehow he made it small.  His legs were
sprawled out in front of him.  Within reaching distance, she thought,
although she didn't test this theory.  His hands were dangling over the
sides of the chair, his knuckles grazing the tiled floor, brushing the
fringe of her Oaxacan woven rug.

His eyes were on her.  And a gentle smile played on his lips.  He'd
never looked so approachable, so ordcnary in an extraordinary sort of
way.

"I've never heard you laugh before," he said softly.  " " I don't do it
very often, " she said.  Even this reminder couldn't erase the smile
from her lips.

"I like it "

She thought about that a moment, then slowly said, "So do I."

They both fell silent, and the moment seemed to freeze in its very
warmth.  She thought John had never looked so relaxed before and she
had never felt so easy in his presence.  Was this what sitting around
with someone could be like?  What that nebulous word "friend" meant? 
Could there actually be moments when the tension ebbed, the fear
receded , and suddenly, for a shimmering split second, a real
camaraderie could blossom?  She wished she could take this moment and
lock it away in her heart, the kind of precious memory to take out on a
lonely, rainy day and review with loving care.  Would it make her smile
later, a smile such as his lifting her spirits, easing the blues away? 
She thought that just maybe it would.

"I can see I'm going to have to stock up on jokes."

His words implied he'd be seeing a lot of her.  More than just a few
days of waiting for a sociopath to track her down.

qhe felt her smile slipping.  She shut her mind to whatever it was he
was or wasn't implying.

"Charlie's the guy with the lines," John said.  He was still looking at
her, but Kelsey had the feeling he was seeing other times, other
places.  She found she was slightly jealous of the half smile on his
face, the pleasant memory that claimed qtn, if only because she'd never
seen him look this easy, this aqe,ssible before.

Gone was the hard-boiled agent, replaced by a handaqme stranger who had
a life outside of her recurring nightqare A stranger who had friends,
had been married, divoroed and lived places she had only heard about in
news ttories or through novels.  A man who had touched countjqss lives
beyond hers.  She felt humbled and a little in awe.  qhe had the odd
notion she'd opened a door and was peek at him without his knowing
it.

A sharp pang of longing shot through her.  Not the conqqusing desire
she felt for the physical John, but a piercing to know this relaxed
stranger sitting before her now.  didn't want to be just a voyeur on
his life, but a parti ct The notion scared her and excited her at the
same

"One-liners?"  she asked, just to keep him talking, to ing to this
moment, to listen to the altered quality in his voice, the gentled
tone, the note of respect tinged with qething she'd never thought to
hear in John Chandler's eech.  Was that because she'd never looked for
it before , 'was it that he'd never let her glimpse it earlier?  "qOne
time we were staking out this guy.  He was a pretty qd character,
dabbled in everything from drugs to trapog zebras for black-market
sales.  Anyway, we ended up in s storage closet, up to our teeth in
animal skins, tusks, 7s, you name it."  He paused, chuckling at the
memory, his eyes on whatqer had been in that closet.  Kelsey felt her
own smile req 'ning, not from what he was saying necessarily, but
because his deep rumble was wholly infectious and because he was
sharing this memory with her.  She propped her head on her hand and
leaned there on her elbow, aware of the danger outside her house, and
very aware of this moment of peace.

His laughter played on her nerve endings like his touch, making her
tingle, making her feel alive.  Alive, perhaps, ior the first time in
three years.  Not safe, certainly not secure, and not even necessarily
happy even at this moment, but she didn't search for those elusive
feelings now, she only lay there on her exercise mat, drinking in the
sheer glory of living

He went on with his story, with whatever Charlie had said, and she even
chuckled at the punch line, but she found she wasn't so much listening
to what he said as to the things he wasn't.  Things like finding humor
even in the face of danger, other things like placing one's whole life
in another 's hands and trusting that life to be cared for.  And deeper
messages, like living with a restless loneliness and an ache that never
quite went away.  She could hear these unspoken words, could feel them
lingering in his tone, see them in his eyes, on his half-curved lips.

His friends were lucky, she decided.

And she wasn't.

Was that what life came down to, she wondered, simply a matter of being
lucky or not?  The notion was inexpressibly sad.

"Kelsey..  , ?"

Had he asked her a question?  She blinked, realizing she was looking
right at him, but as he had done earlier, she'd been seeing other
faces, other times, alternate realities.

"Wherewereyou raised, John?"  she asked.

"In a little town in western Montana," he answered.  Something shifted
on his face.  He looked as though he'd tasted something slightly
bitter.

"It was bad?"

Whatever that taste was, bitterness didn't quite cover it.  A muscle
jumped in his cheek before he answered.  "Bad?  No.  Just empty "

"Were you an only child?"  she persisted, not quite knowing why it
seemed important to do so.  Maybe because being interested in someone
else chased the demons back into the darkness for a moment.  Or maybe
because she'd just now discovered how much she didn't know him, hadn't
tried to know.

He didn't answer for several seconds, long enough that she wondered if
he was going to.  " " I don't know.  "

The words were too stark not to be a warning of sorts.  He'd called his
upbringing empty; not even knowing if you had siblings or not was far
more than that.  It spoke of pain too intense to talk about.

"My parents died when I was twenty," she said, deflecting the confusion
she saw in his eyes.  "One of the support counselors suggested that was
one reason I was so susceptible to a man like Bill: '

"Because you needed someone?"  he asked.

"That's what the counselor thought."

"I'm not sure I buy that," John said.

"Why not?"

"Because somehow that puts the blame on you.  As though if you hadn't
been grieving, or if you had been alert, someone like Bill wouldn't
ever have gotten his hooks into you.  As if it was all your fault for
believing his lies.  The truth is, he's the liar.  He was the one who
hit you.  He was the one who tried to kill you.  It wasn't anything you
were going through that brought that down on you: '

She hadn't looked at it that way, and studied it now to see how it
felt.  She read the sincerity in his steady gaze, the certainty in his
posture.  He believed what he said.  For at least two years now she'd
been handing out tips en how to avoid men like Bill Winslow, but was
there a way to avoid the con men, the crazies in the world if they
really wanted to trap you?

A person could put up guards, take care not to be in situations that
invited trouble, but against a hardened criminal mind, what chance did
anyone really stand?  She sighed in some measure of relief.  She felt
as if John had handed her some missing jigsaw puzzle piece, one that
had been absent for at least thirteen years.  The why piece.

There wasn't a real answer to the why, except that in John's puzzle
piece, her name wasn't written across the top.  He didn't find her at
fault for having believed Bill's lies, for having bought into his
maelstrom.  John's words were an absolution of sorts.  And she found
that some aspect of her needed to resolve the past.

"Thank you," she said.  "

" For?  "

She smiled a little wistfully and looked down at the bright pattern on
the rug.  "Oh, for being here, maybe.  Or for making me mad this
morning.  Maybe for kissing me.  And for holding my hands before that.
For telling me Bill wasn't my fault.  I don't know all the reasons."

He didn't say anything and she looked up to find him leaning back with
his eyes closed, his face toward the high ceiling.  She couldn't read
his expression, but her heart seemed to beat more slowly, much harder
in her chest.  " " I still want to kill him, " she said softly.

His eyes opened and he slowly lowered his head to look at her again.
"So do

I."

"Somebody has to," she said.

John knew this was the time to tell her, no matter how much he might
hate it.  "Kelsey, two men were killed this morning in West Virginia."
Quickly, he told her what they knew about those deaths.  "We're afraid
Winslow may have been involved."

He steeled himself for the tightening of her features, the pinched look
around her eyes.

Her hand, which had been tracing the pattern on her rug,

stilled for a second, but she didn't tense up.  " " You mean you think
he killed them.  Why?  "

"Why do we think so?  Or why did he do it?"

Kelsey smiled sadly.  "There's no guessing why Bill Winslow would do
anything.  What makes you think he did it?"

"He shook one of the FBI tails in a cafe in Leesburg , Virginia.  The
tail saw him getting into a medical supplies salesman's car."

"

" And the doctor?  "

"A stop on the salesman's route."

"God," she said softly, distantly, almost as though they were talking
about a complete stranger instead of the man after her.  "It's just a
matter of random chance, isn't it?  You know, I'd always thought it was
just me.  Just between Bill and me, I mean.  But it's not, is it?"

"I doubt if it ever was just that," John said quietly.  "He'd conned
plenty of other people before he found you.  And he'd hurt plenty of
others, too.  A person doesn't suddenly just become crazy."

"

" But to kill someone?  "

"Maybe he finally went all the way around that bend," he offered.

"Maybe."

"gut if he really did murder that salesman and that doctor , you won't
have to worry about our killing him or not: " "Why not?  "

"Because they'll either lock him up forever or give him the death
sentence."

"If he's caught."

"He'll be caught."

"It doesn't make any sense to me," she said.

"What doesn't?"

"He tries to kill me and fails.  He gets off in three years for good
behavior, even though he's practically drawn a map acplaining how he
plans to do it again.  He goes out and kills a whole bunch more people,
and now he's free and I'm basically in prison."

"You're not in prison," John said.  q'No, but I'm surrounded by the
FBI-not that I'm complaining about that.  It's just that I don't
understand his being able to take lives-or even try to take them-and
being allowed to live.  "

"There's a fairly large controversy in this country over that very
issue," John said wryly.

Kelsey smiled again, but not without bitterness.  "Do you know that
before Bill hired someone to kill me, I was one of

P ?

" the strongest advocates for enal leniency " " " They say that for
every mugging, a hard-liner is born.

"Is that what I am, a hard-liner?"

John smiled and leaned his head back again.  "I'm not going to tell you
what I think yq .q are."

"Why not?"

His head came back down, his gaze slammed into hers, and the look in
his eyes stole her very breath.  "Because I'm on duty, because for all
you don't want to admit it, you're still scared.  And because next
week, next month, I'll be on assignment somewhere else.  "

"Well, that puts me in my place, doesn't it.  she said easily enough,
despite the sudden tightness in her throat, the hurt at his words and
the understanding of what he wasn't saying.  He'd been angry at himself
for kissing her three years ago.  And for doing itq again this
morning.q

"Do you know that you're the first person I ve kissed in three years?"
she asked, almost dreamily.

He did that stillness trick of his, seeming to freeze in place.  " "
And it was you I kissed three years ago.  " " Kelsey.  " ,

"That makes it more important than it warrants, don't you think?"  she
asked.

"No," he said.  He slowly leaned forward, propping his elbows on his
knees, his brown eyes never wavering from hers.  "No, I don't think
it's unimportant, Kelsey.  I never did: '

"I was too scared to ask you what you meant when you said " It
shouldn't have happened.  " Right after we kissed, I mean.  Do you
remember that?"

His smile was completely gone now, and she felt vaguely guilty about
having made it go away.  A frown had replaced it, but it wasn't a frown
of anger, even of discomfort.

"I remember," he said.  "You shouldn't have been scared to ask.  I
meant that I should never have kissed you.  I was married, I was
assigned to protect you.  You were too vulnerable , too raw for me
to..."

"I was," she said, not needing for him to continue.  "I was too
vulnerable.  Am I now?"

"Are you asking me to kiss you again?"

"I don't know.  Would you if I did?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Kelsey chuckled again and without even thinking about it held out her
hand.  She didn't stop to analyze it, she just did it.  Her heart was
pounding uncomfortably now, and yet she felt oddly at peace.  _ He
stared at her outstretched palm for a long while.  She didn't pull it
back, she left it in the air between them, more than a gesture, less
than a command.  It was an invitation in the purest sense of the word,
and it was a plea.

q'qlsey.  ,"

When she didn't say anything, didn't move in any way, he si8q heavily.
He slid from the chair in a wholly fluid moqtion , standing over her
one moment, kneeling beside her the

"I'll say it again, if you won't take it wrong," he said.  "This
shouldn't be happening."  His warm hand wrapped iq'ound hers.  He held
it for a moment, just staring at it as if l34

he'd never held her hand before, as if he'd never seen it before ,
either.

He lifted his eyes and met hers squarely.  He repeated his statement,
as if by repetition he could convince himself to get to his feet. "This
shouldn't be happening."

"I know," she said, and all too sadly, she did know.  "But just
tonight, just now, can we pretend that it should?"

Chapter 7

Lverything in John seemed to be clamoring for his attention , for his
sanity.  But how could a man be sane with Kelsey lying beneath him,
beside him, lids half-closed, lips parted, dark hair spilling out
around her like a black aura, s:-.  having just asked him for tonight,
for now?  Other men might be able to, he thought, crazy men, or men who
had never seen her, touched her, but not he.

He sat down on the floor beside her, not leaning forward , not giving
in to the desires raging in him, the need fueling him.  But he kept her
hand in his.  He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a high
precipice, the entire future stretched out in front of him and not a
hint of a bridge in sight.

"I'm not exactly sure what I meant by that," she said slowly.  Oh, you
know all right, some part of her admitted.

She just wasn't sure what she wanted from him, what she expected of
herself.  She knew she responded to him more than she ever had anyone,
three years ago and now.

he'd never held her hand before, as if he'd never seen it before ,
either.

He lifted his eyes and met hers squarely.  He repeated his statement,
as if by repetition he could convince himself to get to his feet. "This
shouldn't be happening."

"I know," she said, and all too sadly, she did know.  "But just
tonight, just now, can we pretend that it should?"

Chaqter 7

Everything in John seemed to be clamoring for his attention , for his
sanity.  But how could a man be sane with Kelsey lying beneath him,
beside him, lids half-closed, lips parted, dark hair spilling out
around her like a black aura, having just asked him for tonight, for
now?  Other men might be able to, he thought, crazy men, or men who had
never seen her, touched her, but not he.

He sat down on the floor beside her, not leaning forward , not giving
in to the desires raging in him, the need fueling him.  But he kept her
hand in his.  He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a high
precipice, the entire future stretched out in front of him and not a
hint of a bridge in sight.

"I'm not exactly sure what I meant by that," she said slowly.  Oh, you
know all right, some part of her admitted.  She just wasn't sure what
she wanted from him, what she expected of herself.  She knew she
responded to him more than she ever had anyone, three years ago and
now.

"I'm not exactly sure, either," he said.  She thought his voice sounded
sad rather than confused.

"You're not going to, are you?"  she asked.

"No," he said, wondering if he'd gone out of his mind.  Knowing he must
have done so.

"

" Wh

Now there was a good question, he thought.  Because I'll end up hurting
you, he wanted to tell her, and you'll end up hoping someone breaks my
heart someday.  Because something tells me, it will mean too much, take
too much away.

But he didn't say anything, somehow knew he didn't have to, for he
could see that knowledge already in her eyes.  She'd been hurt so
badly, so thoroughly, he doubted if she'd ever be able to believe in
someone again, really believe in them, trust them, rely on them.

And he knew, then, that it wasn't just himself he had wanted to run
from all those years ago, desperately wanted to run from now.  She made
him want to do everything in his power, everything humanly and
inhumanly possible to gain her trust.  He wanted to erase her past,
eradicate the shadows from her eyes, the ghosts that haunted her.  He
wanted to do all of that, and was afraid if he so much as tried, he'd
be caught, trapped forever in the need for her, the want of her, and
that somehow, in some very real way, he'd be the one left behind.  " "
Kelsey..  "

"It's okay, John," she whispered.  "I think I finally understand It's
not enough just to chase away the fear for a few hours, is it?  There's
so much more involved than that: '

How right she was.  Was that what she wanted from him?  An interlude,
something to chase away the terrors that stalked her?  Somehow he felt
this wasn't the case, but still he didn't feel he understood the true
reason for this sudden drop of her fierce guard.

He wanted to tell her all he was thinking and more.  He wished he could
just shut his mind off.  He wished he could qtreme Justice l37 just
blurt out the raw, unvarnished truth, tell her what he was really like,
what he was capable of, and most of all, what he was not.

Ifl manage to save you from this trouble you 're in, I'll have to go,
I'll want to go.  He wanted to tell her this, too, wanted her to
understand.  I always want to go.  Except once, for a moment, three
years ago.

But even then he'd gone.

With her invitation, her question, her hand resting in his, 1x found he
wanted to warn her, to give her truth to use as a shield if she chose.
But again, he suspected she could see this as well.  But couldn't we
pretend we should?

Her words echoed in his mind, in his loins.  And worst of all, he
thought, in his heart.

"You shouldn't have to pretend," he said.  "Not with me, not with
anyone."

"You shouldn't, either," she said.

Wasn't that the whole trouble, he thought a little wildly, that he was
more than half afraid he wouldn't be pretending , that he couldn't
dissemble with her?  ,

Her hand, tucked in his, trembled, but her eyes didn't waver from his,
wouldn't shy away.  He almost wished they would.  He felt too exposed,
too open to her.  And that was -qangerous.

"I feel like I'm just beginning to know you," she said, smiling
somewhat wistfully.  "The real you, not just the agent who always
dashes in for the rescue."

He returned her smile rather sadly.  Did she feel as nervous , as bleak
about the future?

"I feel the same way," he said.

After studying him for a few moments, she smiled, rather ahyly he
thought, and said, "I think I could really like you, John: '

He felt as though she had reached deep inside him and qd her soft,
delicate hand on some forgotten part of his heart, some door locked so
long ago that even his subconscious mind had lost its memory.

Part of him felt the pain of that touching, a primal cry for freedom.
Another, the part that never forgot what opening that door could mean,
wanted him to fling her hand away, rise and leave her now, leave before
she managed to find the ancient lock, touched it with her magic and
flung the door wide.

She'd told him, and he believed her, that she'd kissed a man only twice
in three years.  He was that man.  And he'd gently, perhaps foolishly,
turned her down when she'd asked him to do it again.  To do more,
perhaps.

With anyone else, it would be so easy to take her into his arms, feel
her soft, firm body against his, revel in the scent of her, the taste
and feel, but with anyone else he wouldn't feel he was diving into dark
waters, waters that might not ever allow him to surface again.

As if reading his conflicting desires, his inner struggle for right and
wrong, his fear of her, his overwhelming need for her, she lifted her
free hand and laid it on his arm.  Had she done more, stroked his face,
touched his thigh, he might have had the strength, even the
cowardliness necessary to pull away from her.

But she simply rested her hand on his forearm, as if she understood, as
if she were reassuring him, telling him not to worry.

He had thought her fragile, had seen her afraid and had thought her
vulnerability signified her weakened state.  He'd been so wrong, he
realized now, staring at her, seeing in her wise eyes all the strengths
he hadn't understood before.

Vulnerability wasn't weakness, wasn't fear, he realized now.  It was a
certain candidness, a guileless honesty that lingered in a quiet hand,
a still body, an unwavering pair of blue, blue eyes.

And he understood her.  She hadn't been offering him a night as a means
of avoiding the fear, of keeping the dan139

ger at bay.  She'd been giving him that glimpse of the real qIsey, the
complete woman without the trappings of toughness, without the wall of
fears, the impenetrable barrier of hurts.

The sheer magnitude of her gift unnerved him.

And sobered him.

Kelsey felt his regard the way a plant drinks in sustenance from the
sun's rays.  His eyes said so much more than he would ever allow to
pass his lips, she thought.

If he touched her now, she would melt.  She knew that, and
conflictingly, both hoped he would and prayed he wouldn't.  She
responded to him too much, too thoroughly.  And she was letting him see
the real Kelsey tonight, and was reveling in that showing.

She felt she was ending all the lies she'd been living for the past
three years, maybe even the past thirteen.  Somehow in laughing with
him, in lying on this floor, his hand holding hers, her free hand upon
his arm, just resting there, nothing more, she was cleansing her soul
of the terror, purging it of the string of half-truths, the endless
array of white lies.  She felt wholly and totally free.

That very freedom made her think of how vulnerable she could be without
her ever-present anger, both in actual terms -and because it made her
remember her long-ago self, that Kelsey who was dead and buried.  How
much she would have liked to have known John before she'd met Bill. How
much she would have enjoyed his easy humor, his struggle with tact, his
protectiveness.

And how very much that enjoyment had come along at the wrong time in
her life.

Now, more than ever, she needed to be the warrior Kelsey , the woman
who backed down to no one, anu not just because Bill Winslow was once
again after her life.  She needed that strong part of her to remain on
the surface because she was altogether too susceptible to this man
holding her hand.  Whenever he was around she was too conscious of his
gaze, his touch.  He couldn't move without her being aware of his body,
his warm brown eyes, the long, supple fingers of his hands, the rather
quirky smile he displayed on occasion.

She turned into a veritable marshmallow whenever he walked into the
room.  And that she didn't need.  She would be crazy to lean on someone
else, to rely on them.  She would be crazy to give in, even for a
single glorious minute, to the way he made her feel.  She didn't dare
trust anyone.

He slowly lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft, warm kiss
against her knuckles.  She felt that touch echo through every pore of
her body.  She should pull her hand back.  She'd already said too much,
invited too much.

But she didn't withdraw her fingers, couldn't somehow.

She reminded herself that she didn't dare trust anyone.  Not even the
long arm of this very capable representative of the law.  She knew
that, she felt the truth of it, but with his lips against her knuckles,
his eyes on hers, that truth seemed distant and oh, so far away.  In
the case of John Chandler, how could she possibly help giving some
measure of trust?

As if he'd been traveling along the same mental lines she had, he
lowered her hand to his lap, and said, "When I was a kid, I used to
think that grown-ups had all the answers.  Like ma ic.  Poof, they
turned a certain age and suddenly all this incredible knowledge just
poured into their heads."

Kelsey smiled.  She felt so lazy, so at peace.  Was there something
wrong in accepting this brief moment of respite ?

"And then, I was older: He chuckled, though the sound was slightly
bitter.  " "And I didn't feel any smarter, no " poof' for me.  For a
long time, I thought that maybe, because I was raised in the orphanage,
I didn't get the same information everybody else got.  Do you know what
I'm saying?  "

Slqe nodded, though she wasn't sure she did.  He was an rphan?  That
was why he didn't know about other siblings ?

"But now I think we all just stumble around, trying to act like adults,
wondering how we got here, when did we stop being kids and have to
start paying rent?  Do we ever get to stop for a minute and be a kid
again?"  He asked the question as though he really wanted an answer,
expected her to be able to give him one.

She felt as if he'd touched a nerve.  She'd left everything she knew or
loved behind.  She'd been slipped out of one life and into another. And
she'd worked hard to build this one , to safeguard it.  But where were
the little joys, the laughter, the simple thrill that children seemed
to possess to such abundance that they could actually ride that roller
coaster of life with all its fears, its brilliant peaks, its
despair-filled valleys, get off and immediately want to ride again?

She wanted to tell him that they could, they could signal the great
pitchman in the sky and hop on that joyride and soar to the clouds,
forgetting routines, mortgage payments and ex-husbands who thrived on
the thirst for murder.

But, unlike John, she had been one of those unlucky few that did
acquire the full knowledge of adulthood in one fell blow.  Three years
ago she'd started that new life, an abqtly adult life.  A life based on
guardedness, on single minded adherence to regimen, to rebuilding
strength.

She shook her head, more saddened than she could let hq know.  "There's
no going back," she said.  - "And there's no tomorrow," he answered.
"

He just looked at her for a long while, then said softly, q qqBecause
tomorrow takes a commitment of some kind , q don't you think?  "

She wasn't sure.  She was only just beginning to feel a qfringe touch
of the future.  "For someone in survival qode," she said finally,
"tomorrow is just a word."

"Because there aren't any guarantees?"  he asked.

"There aren't any guarantees about anything.  Why should tomorrow be
any different?"  she queried.

He set her hand down, laying it against her chest, careful not to brush
his fingertips against her breast, too careful for her to be unaware of
his studied caution.  In an odd way she felt she had let him down
somehow, rebuffed him, though if she had, it was only with the truth.

"I want to be friends," she said suddenly, feeling as if she blurted it
out.  Her desire for friendship was truer than he might ever know.

He hesitated and she wanted to retreat, but she didn't look away.  God
knows what strength enabled her to meet his eyes directly,
unwaveringly.

"What do you mean, friends?"  he asked.

And in his asking she understood.  They were not so different , she and
John.  They were cut from the same mold, perhaps at alternate times of
their lives, but both had been harshly cut, roughly hewn.  They were
the product of too little love at times when they needed it, too much
punishment when they didn't deserve it at all.

She drew a slow, deep breath.  This was too important to let slide in a
glib phrase or an offhand remark.  But she also sensed, and really
felt, that a modicum of humor couldn't hurt.  "You know, friends, that
seven-letter word meaning pals, buddies, cohorts in crime."

What on earth was she doing?  he wondered.  The last thing he wanted to
be was her friend.  An image of a "big brother" came to mind.  An
uncle.  Worse, a eunuch.  He'd kissed her for God's sake.  After that,
no man would settle for just being her friend.  Still, given the
circumstances, it would certainly be easier to be around her with that
tag on their uneasy relationship.

She went on.  "Friends tell each other secrets.  They exchange hopes
and dreams.  And... I think friends are there for the good times, not
just the bad.  Not just the rainy-day times, but the moments that are
so great, so wonderful that you have to have someone to share that with
you: '

She felt as if she'd simply trailed off, although she'd said everything
she had to say.  He looked at her as if she was a peculiar pattern that
had just erupted on her Oaxacan rug.

"I don't have many high times," he said roughly.  AI most
accusatorially, as if she'd changed the rules on him somehow.

"Neither do I," she said.

"But when you do..  : he said slowly, gropingly " you want to share
them?  "

"Don't you?"  she asked.  "Don't you want to throw everything to the
wind once in a while and simply laugh until you drop?  "

"What are you asking me to do?"  he asked.  His voice was harsh. Nearly
angry.

"I'm not asking you to do anything.  All I want to know is that if I
ask you to come over on Saturday night for a pizza and a pitcher of
beer... or champagne and caviar on Thursday, that you'll say " what's
the occasion?  " and you'll try to be there."

"I live in D.C."  Kelsey.  "

And that was the ultimate leveler.  "Yes," she said, looking for the
exception to the inevitable rule.  " " But you have a qtqqL .  q. 11

"But I'm not home all that often."

"I have the feeling you're dodging the question," she said, and her
heart felt close to breaking.  She'd never wanted anything as much as
what she was asking now.  Let me in.  Open up that heart of yours the
one that sees the humor in a closet filled with zebra tails and
elephant feet, and allow me to laugh, too, allow me a chance to see
you.

Just let me believe that all this will be finished, that everything
will turn out all right, she wanted to beg.  Don't you get it,
Chandler?  What I'm asking for here is a glimmer that there will be a
tomorrow, a day after the cataclysm, a morning after the confrontation.
I'm asking you to pretend that there will be a future, that tomorrow
you and I don't really see.

"Do you know that you're the only person, besides my case worker, who
even knows my real name?"  she asked.

"You want to be friends?"  he asked, overriding her thoughts.  His
question was harsh, she thought, and, half ironically , unfriendly.

She smiled, she couldn't help it.  "Well, not if you don't want to."

"In my world," he said, "friends stand at your back, cover you, and
then make damned sure your front side's covered, too."

"You're luckier in your friendships," she said.  "My back has always
been exposed."

"Except once," he said, and shifted his gaze to the carpet

"That didn't last long, did it?"  she asked, and immediately regretted
the question, for it sounded bitter, angry.  She truly hadn't intended
it that way.

"No, I guess from your perspective, it didn't," he said.  "Not exactly
friends by your definition."

"

" So, maybe my back is still exposed, " she said.

"It's against the floor."

"That's a terrible place for a back," she shot back.

"Better than up against a wall."

"Where do you think Bill is now?"  she asked.  The question sounded
like a non sequitur.  But it wasn't.  Not really.

"I would imagine he's holing up somewhere in Middle America.  Ohio.
Indiana.  One of the smaller airports, someplace we haven't placed a
trace detail."

"What do you think his chances of being able to get through are?  "

His lips pursed, and Kelsey was glad he wasn't lqoking directly at her;
he'd see too much want in her eyes, he'd be able to see just how
vulnerable she really was.  He could make the fears go away, he could
rid her of this gnawing anxiety.  He could, but he hadn't.  Wouldn't.

"I think he'll probably get through," he said.  "Not because we aren't
smart enough or strong enough to take him first, but because he's
focused.  He's driven."

She didn't say anything, merely considered his analysis.  He was right,
there weren't any odds to be leveled on Bill Winslow's ability to get
through.  He would find her.  If not now, then later.

The phone rang and John's casualness disappeared so abruptly she had to
wonder how much of him had really been sitting there with her and how
much was still working on the case, thinking of all the angles, the
difficulties.  He whipped into the other room, had the trace device
operating and was lifting the receiver before she'd even pushed to her
feet.

"Hello?"  she heard him ask as she crossed the room.  She felt slightly
unsteady, as if she'd been drinking or had overexerted herself.

His back was to her, and she found herself wishing the phone hadn't
rung, that the night had remained inviolate that the cares of the world
had faded for a brief span of time.  She wanted to go to him, to lean
against him, to feel his warm, broad back beneath her palms, to press
her cheek lo that wide expanse.

But those thoughts were reminiscent of the old Kelsey, the woman who
needed someone, who had relied on others to do what she should have
been capable of doing for herself.  Why did that other Kelsey, that
scared, pitiful Kelsey seem qSs lonely?  Why did that alternate, former
self seem more fortunate than she?

"Fine," he said.  "Just keep the rotation random.  If he does show up,
we don't want him witnessing the changing of the guard."

She realized, as if for the first time, that John was truly doing his
job.  It wasn't just a matter of baby-sitting Kelsey for a few days, he
was attempting to take care of every possible contingency, right down
to arranging the outside teams changing shifts at seeming random.  All
for her protection.  All for her safety.

Had she been so busy trying to prove to him that she was capable, tough
and able to handle her own life, that she'd made his job more
difficult?

"Hell, yes, it would have been easier at the safe house.  But there was
no arguing with her.  We're here now, and I want everything as smooth
as glass."

She had her answer.  She had made it more difficult.  She tried telling
herself that her safety was more likely here, with a confrontation now,
than if she slipped away somewhere and hoped for the best, wished that
the future would resolve itself.  But hearing the regret in his tone
made her waver

"Right.  Okay, call me first thing.  Good."  He hung up, disconnected
the tracer and turned back around.  He did that stillness thing when he
saw her standing in the doorway.  His gaze sharpened, sparked by a
hunger Kelsey suspected was largely unconscious.

Whatever the myriad reasons he might have had for refusing her earlier,
it hadn't stemmed from any lack of desire She thought of the way he'd
sounded on the phone, wholly connected, utterly in tune with his
assignment, and suspected that was the primary reason for his seeming
withdrawal He couldn't love her with one ear tuned to the door , to the
outside.  And he was on assignment.

He wasn't a man of half measures.  She'd seen it in his eyes, he was
all or nothing at all.  And yet, she remembered , it had been he who
had reminded her that nothing was either black-or-white, that too many
shades of gray lingered in between.

With that flicker of hunger in his eyes, his body rigid with the strain
of staying across the room from her, she thought that a shade of gray
must be what she was to him, a nebulous , unanswerable shade of gray.

"I'm going to bed," she said softly.  She didn't ask him to join her,
though she wanted to, ached to have his warm arms surround her, would
have killed to have him kiss the darkness away, the fears into
oblivion.

"I'll get the lights," he said casually, although his expression was
far from easy.

Her heart pounded uncertainly as she mounted the stairs.  She felt his
gaze follow her around the curve, could feel his stillness even after
she passed out of sight and made her way down the short hallway to her
bedroom.

She peeled out of her exercise suit and tossed it into the hamper.  As
she showered, trying to let the 'water soothe her jangled nerve
endings, she tried understanding her own brazenness that evening.  She
couldn't deceive herself into believing it had been born from a need to
hide from the fear that raged inside her.  And she couldn't hide behind
the notion that he had so thoroughly defused her anger that passion had
immediately swept in to fill that void.

No, she had offered herself, had asked him for himself, out of a nearly
raw honesty.  A true desire for him.  A desire so intense, so achingly
abandoned that her request had slipped from her without thought,
without rational consideration

She toweled off, trying to determine whether or not she was embarrassed
by his refusal, by her request.  That she wasn't was entirely of his
making.  He'd offered her something equally precious in return-his
friendship.  Of the two, his might have been the more valuable, since
it was the more difficult to realize.

She slipped on a blue satin negligee and pulled the band from her hair,
shaking it free.  It was hot in the room, steamy from the shower, made
hotter by her thoughts about John.  She moved to the window and slid
her hand beneath the curtain to undo the catch.

All hell broke loose.

John had long since finished turning out the downstairs q lights,
rechecking the window and door locks.  He was in his room, already
having shucked his shoes, socks and belt.  His shirt was unbuttoned and
he was just shrugging it off when he heard the unmistakable scream of
one of the window alarms.

He had his pistol in hand and was out the door and into the hallway in
less than a mere second.  He didn't stop to determine where the sound
was coming from.  One thought dominated all.  Kelsey.

He covered the hallway in a single leap and threw open the door to her
room.  He followed his outstretched gun into the room, his eyes raking
the perimeters.

He frowned in puzzlement and in a measure of heart stopping fear.
Kelsey was standing beside the window, her hands over her mouth as
though holding in the scream that still rent the air.  She was
unharmed.  No one was holding her at gunpoint, no one was half in or
out the window behind her.  Yet the alarm continued to shriek.

"What the hell-?"  he yelled over the cacophony.

Her hands dropped from her mouth.  Her eyes lit in relief and she
stepped forward a pace.  "I didn't mean to," she said, a child's
instinctive excuse leaving her lips.

"What?"

He lowered his weapon, crossing the room swiftly and raising a hand to
the window alarm.  He tripped the switch and the noise ceased as
abruptly as it had begun.  His ears still rang with the horrible
scream.  His heart was still pounding with the intensity of his fear
for her, his gut wrenching certainty that Bill Winslow had somehow
breached the security of her home.

"Why the hell didn't you just turn it off?"  he barked at her.

"Because you never told me how," she snapped back.

"Any child could've figured it out!  "

"You're so busy being Mr.  Macho, that you don't fill me in on things.
I didn't even know you'd put those damn things in my window !  "

His temper, fueled by his fear; exacerbated by his frusqated desire for
her and his recognition that she was correct in at least one of her
accusations-he hadn't told her how to turn the bloody things off-made
him see red.

"You want in on everything?  Fine.  There are alarms on every damned
window in this place.  And they're hair-trigger And you turn them off
by pushing the little white button at the back.  You turn on the tracer
device by lifting the bloody lid and waiting for the green light.  The
teams outside are shifting on quarter hour, in consecutive sequence.
There's an FBI operative posted at every major airport.  Every police
department in Texas has been issued a photograph of Winslow and an
all-points has been posted for him.  Your dippy friend 5as eaten dinner
and made a pass at Hendricks, and I'm damned sick of you taking your
anger over your ex-husband out on me!  "

He hadn't realized that he'd been advancing on her as he delivered his
diatribe.  He didn't know it until he saw her start of surprise as her
legs made contact with the bed behind her.  But she stood her ground,
he thought with some admiration.  As usual, she wasn't going to let him
see her afraid.

Seeing her that way, her chin raised, her lovely body encased in blue
satin that matched her eyes, her hair a cascading black cloud around
her shoulders, his anger evaporated.  He raised his free hand to his
forehead and rubbed it, trying to get a handle on what it was he had to
really be angry about.

Himself, he thought.  For turning her down, for wanting her so much he
could taste it, for backing her across the room like some crazed
lunatic, for reacting to that alarm not as a seasoned agent, but as a
man.  Fxtreme Justice

"I think it's probably a medical fact that you can't rub a frown out of
existence, " she said.

He smiled slightly, dropped his hand.  He couldn't look at _her,
couldn't let her see what he'd only just now realized himself.  He
stared instead at the large, Southwestern painting over her bed.  It
was starkly beautiful in a harsh way.

And lonely somehow.  And strong.  And it seemed, in the soft glow of
the bedside lamp, to epitomize Kelsey herself.

His gaze dropped to the bedside table, took in her .  38 lying there at
the ready, a cold nighttime partner at best.  He crossed to the
telephone and lifted the receiver.  Without looking at her, he punched
in the number of the primary relief outside.

"Chandler.  It's okay.  I tripped the window on accident" He wasn't
sure why he felt the need to say it was his fault, and he didn't
particularly want to analyze it.  It was more an apology to Kelsey for
yelling at her than any real covering up of a goof.

He replaced the receiver and spoke, without turning to meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, realizing he wasn't identifying what he was
apologizing for exactly.

"I'm sorry I set off the alarm," she answered, a slight quaver in her
voice.

He looked at her then.  To his amazement, the quaver hadn't been
produced by tears, by a reaction to his anger.  She was biting back a
smile, literally holding it in with her teeth.

"Why you little..."  he said, crossing the final distance between them
and taking her arm.  It was a mistake.  He shouldn't have touched her.
Because now he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

Slowly she released her hold on her lower lip.  Her mouth parted, moist
and all too inviting.  Her eyes were wide and bluer than copper-burned
flame.  And she stood perfectly Still.

He felt the entire universe was waiting, on hold somehow Something deep
inside him seemed to break, a shatqring so thorough, so complete, that
all the dams in the world wouldn't be able to contain what was
released.

"I can't pretend, Kelsey," he said hoarsely.  His voice qmed to come
directly from that ancient door inside him, was perhaps, the screech of
the lock turning itself.

"Neither can I," she said slowly.  "Not about this."

With the very real feeling he was making the single biggest mistake of
his life, and at the same time knowing that this was one mistake worth
risking life for, he lowered his lips to hers.

Chapter S

qlsey closed her eyes, feeling his warm lips brush hers, tremble
against her own.  Butterfly soft and as light, his mouth skimmed across
her sensitive lips, her cheek and lower, to the pulse throbbing near
her collarbone.

She shivered as the light kiss seemed to radiate out in rippling
spirals, making her arms and legs tingle, kindling a fire inside her.
She had witnessed the war waging in him, watched it on his face, in his
eyes, felt it in the delicate brush of his lips.

And she'd heard the truth, a raw, pained veracity in his voice when he
told her he couldn't pretend, but didn't know whether his words
foretold his winning or losing that war he'd fought.  But in his
slightly shaking body, his almost incorporeal touch, she felt the
sharp, poignant empathy that sprang of recognizing the depth of his
honesty with her, of hers with him.

That this cost him, she knew now.  She suspected it might just well be
as much as it was costing her.

She felt she understood so much more about him after tonight, from his
laugh, from his painful inner struggle, from finally seeing him as
something other than her knight in slightly tarnished armor.

He, too, was running from something.  Not her, perhaps, but something.
She'd heard it in his anger, had seen it in the dazed way he came back
to himself, studied her room, looked at her.

He, too, had been wounded in some essential way, at some crucial time
in his life.  And like her, he needed a measure of peace, of
friendship, a respite from the storms in his life, a chance to share
the candlelight before the nightmare resumed.

She returned his light kiss, not arching to him for more, not asking or
demanding anything other than this soft, almost sweet touch.

When that thought changed, when the tenor of their kiss altered, she
couldn't have said.  She only knew that he wanted her as much as she
wanted him, that it was no longer q matter of there being too little
between them, but now, possibly, too much.  q. : She clung to him as he
pressed more deeply, reveling in his qreight, craving more, aching for
him to touch her, for the qiiuch of him.  She wondered at her abandoned
thinking, her qemplete disregard for tomorrows or maybes..  q She felt
the cold touch of his gun barrel against her thigh shivered.  It was a
grim reminder of the reason he was in

House, the reason why he'd burst through the door.  And represented
everything she'd worked to become and to qs if reading her mind, he
stepped away from her and set gun down on her dresser.  He dislodged
the bullet from chamber and loosened the clip.  But he did this without
ng his eyes from her.  She felt he was still kissing her ugh he was
some five feet away.

He wasn't turning her down now.  And she had the very real feeling that
there was no turning back.  She felt this moment had been destined,
perhaps three years earlier, perhaps a lifetime ago.  They had been
meant to come together , to meet, to grapple with conflicting emotions
until the essential, inexorable quality that drew them became the most
important element.

As it was now.

His gun discarded, he slowly came back to her.  He stopped inches from
her, not touching, not speaking, just drinking her in.  She could feel
the want emanating from him, a palpable force, so strong it was nearly
visible.  And she knew he could feel it being matched, taken and sent
back in identical strength, parallel intensity.

Tonight, this minute, she felt they were total equals, both afraid, and
both risking the lowering of their all-essential guards.

She didn't wait for him to come that last step forward.  Instinctively
she knew she had to meet him halfway.  She stepped into him, her arms
lifting to his shoulders, her hands lightly grasping the back of his
neck.  For a moment he hesitated, then with a surety born of extreme
need, his hands encircled her waist and brought her roughly to him.

Yes, she thought.  They were both equal now, both breathing raggedly,
hearts thundering against each other.  Here, in the safety of each
other's embrace, for this time , they could drop the barriers, forget
them, because tonight, now, they were more than the knight and his
damsel in distress They were a man and woman who were also friends.

She shivered as his lips found the sensitive spot behind her earlobe
and she arched to meet his trembling hand.  And she knew suddenly and
with complete surety, that later they would neither one be the same.
How they would be changed, in what ways, she couldn't begin to guess,
but the changes would take place nonetheless.

Extreme Justice I55

She should have listened to him, she thought; this shouldn t be
happening.

He lifted a hand to her face, cupped it, and pulled away to look at
her.  " " Ah..  Kelsey.  "

He said her name like a prayer, or a promise.  And at his tone, tears
stung her eyes.  She wanted to say something to him, something that
would create a bridge between this moment and tomorrow, but there was
nothing to say, no words that could create something out of thin air,
could make something happen that wasn't meant to be.

"I've never wanted anyone as much as I want you," he said.

The raw honesty in his voice, in his words made her feel a little
afraid, more than a little nervous, but she met his eyes without
hesitation and what she saw there allayed her fears, stole the tension
from her limbs.

His gaze burned with hunger, and yet a nearly staccato pulse throbbed
in his jaw, telling of his own vulnerability, his own need for control
of his desires, his fear of hurting her, his fear of her hurting him.

Her eyes seemed to grow heavier, her body pliable and languid.  And she
moved now, raising her own hand to his cheek where that muscle
thrummed.  "Yes, John," she said , as though he had asked a question.

Achingly slowly, he bent over her again, stretching his legs forward to
meet hers, holding her tightly against him, letting her know the extent
of his want, his need.  Kissing her fully now, he exhorted her
response, elicited her insanity.  Letting her taste him, as well, he
raised his hands to her face to hold her steady, to keep her with him.
She could have gone nowhere else, would never want to again.

One of his hands slipped behind her head, into her hair, pulling her
even closer to him as his other slowly roamed the curve of her
shoulder, followed the line of her arm, the swell of her breast.
Slowly, as though she were a cat and he was soothing her, waiting for
her to purr, he stroked her waist, her hips, her waist again, and the
side of her breast.

She'd laughed tonight, she'd felt like crying at the different
expressions on his face and she'd felt alive.  But now , qvith his lips
against hers, his rock-hard body pressing against her, she understood
she'd only guessed the half of it.  This..  this communion of two
people, this was being alive.

Now, tonight, like emerging from a chrysalis, an entirely new self was
winging its way to the very meaning of life, a self that had always
been there, just never called forth before She felt totally and wholly
there, absolutely connected with the moment, with the man, with her own
heart.

As if sensing her dawning awareness, he pulled up again, drawing in air
like a drowning man, stilling his touch, opening his eyes to meet hers.
She raised her hand to his chest and felt his heart thundering against
her fingertips.  He mimicked her action and she knew he, too, could
feel her heart pressing against his warm palm.

And suddenly she didn't know what to do, didn't know how to continue.
She trembled with want, with need, but couldn't voice it, didn't dare
to.

He pulled away from her slightly and she wanted to cry out at the
abandonment, but didn't.  In a contemplation as slow as his touch had
been, he studied her face, probed her thoughts.  In the most
frightening lowering of her guard, she allowed him to see at will, to
understand whatever it was he was searching for.

He had to close his eyes against the sheer intensity of what he could
see in hers.  She'd stood there so bravely, he thought, her face
slightly upturned, her chin squared, her shoulders back.  She looked
like a dark Valkyrie at the gates of Valhalla.  He knew she was giving
him all she thought she had to give.  And selfishly, he wanted more.

He wanted from her what he himself couldn't give.  He knew she was open
to him, was giving him this measure of trust, a quantum leap across the
barriers she kept locked into place around her.

But he also knew that, like him, she was wrestling with the need to
hold on to that fierce guard, the need for perpetual distance.

He wanted to reassure her, to offer whatever it would take to make her
feel she could trust him, could let herself go.  But there were no
words that could convey that promise, because words weren't enough.  It
had to come from total faith.

A faith he couldn't offer her in return, a faith he didn't believe he
had to offer at all.  But trust or faith or even simple hope didn't
matter now.  Because she was standing before him now, a satin touch
away, and his resistance was gone, as absent as the sun at midnight,
the moon on a summer 's morn.

He'd fought this internal battle earlier, had told himself he'd won.
But he hadn't.  He'd lost the moment Charlie called him in Washington
to let him know he would be seeqg

Kelsey again.  He'd lost it the first moment he'd glimpsed her dark
silhouette, and he might as well have tossed in the qauntlet when he'd
kissed her this morning, for the war had tculy ended there.  q:.  He
had only been dodging the inevitable, stalling the adqission that he
wanted her more than thought, needed her more than he needed breath. q.
He wanted her trust, yes, but knew he had yet to earn it.  q? Vasn't
sure he would receive it even then.  And most of all , lWes certain he
would not be able to return it in kind.  But jjpow, tonight, he had the
rest of her, and she him.  Tonight Iqey needn't be alone.  q Slowly he
unclenched his hands and let them hang loosely [llq hisqsides.  He had
argued with himself long enough.  He d fought to do the right thing, to
walk away from her, ve her in her room, lock himself in for the night. 
Before it was too late for either of them. Before it was too late for
him.

But he couldn't.  Because walking away from her wasn' the right thing.
There was nothing right about it.

He lifted his eyes and met her liquid blue gaze.  There was a hint of
tears in her eyes where slow passion had burned only moments before. He
held out his hand and whispered her name.  His voice had gone with his
sanity, and he'd never needed anything in his life as much as he needed
her to understand that he couldn't walk away from her now, couldn't
call a halt.

Slowly she placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her forward.
He didn't pull her into his arms, nor did he release her, but continued
to hold her hand.  In a peculiar way, he felt they were making up for
some long-ago lost time.  It felt as if they were simply courting.  It
was an old-fashioned notion, and yet vaguely poignant.  He was standing
in her bedroom, at arm's length, merely holding her soft hand in his.

A tear clung to her cheek and slowly etched its way down.

His heart wrenched at the sight and he lifted a finger to catch it.  It
felt solid against his skin, and seemed a concrete manifestation of his
choices.

"Don't cry, Kelsey," he said.  His voice was harsh, as though he hadn't
spoken in years.  "I don't want you hurt: '

"You won't hurt me," she said softly, changing his words, altering
their meaning.  And he knew it wasn't true and hated himself for
knowing it.

He drew her into his arms then, as much to shield her from this truth
as to hide from it himself.  And as her body grazed his, he found he
couldn't think.  She felt so good against him, fitting him, molded to
him as though she'd been carved from the opposite side of the same clay
as he: He held her tightly, aching for her, striving to put a permanent
end to the distance between them.

He ran his hands over her back, down her sides, up the soft curve of
her neck.  He lifted her thick, silken hair and tested its weight in
his hands, let it spill from his fingers, tease her shoulders, cloud
around her face.  It covered her, him, like a warm fluffed curtain,
releasing her scent into the air.  He held a strand of that soft black
to his nostrils, rubbed it against his face and felt he was drowning in
a sea of sense.  He ran his fingers through her hair, against her
scalp, smiling as she groaned, sighing when her knees buckled against
his.

He caught her to him and swiftly lifted her into his arms, catching her
beneath her knees.  Her arms slid around his neck as a small gasp of
surprise escaped her lips.  He bent his head and kissed her smile.

He should have felt foolish, he thought.  But he didn't.  He'd never
felt this good.  Not once in his whole life.

Feeling as though he could climb mountains, scale brick walls without
need of ropes or ladders, he held her tightly egainst his chest, turned
slowly around in a large circle, laving the way she held her head back,
letting her long black hair trail behind her, beneath her, truly a
cloud now, riding qn the wind.  q: He may have spoken to her, she may
even have replied, qt when he thought about it later, all he remembered
was qevv perfect she felt in his arms, how right he felt holding

Carrying her this way, having lifted her from her feet in her own
bedroom was symbolic somehow, the warrior ime , the conqueror, the
bridegroom. But it was more than aqtq it was a sign of respect, of
honor, perhaps even of pure imal desire to display strength before the
chosen partner. qhe glow from the hallway cast a pool of soft gold on
the floor of her bedroom and as he stepped into it he felt an alqst
-preternatural recognition of the light, as if it symbold some kind of
oblique blessing.  And the soft radiance nn her bedside lamp glimmered
across the satiny bed spread, making the large bed look like a dark
pool of glistening water.

Gently, almost reluctantly, he laid her down upon the bed, _ then
stretched out beside her and took her into his arms, more than
half-afraid that he was taking her into his heart, as well.

She moaned, a pleasured, pleading exhortation, and he couldn't have
denied her, himself, what she wanted, what he craved.

He ran his hands along her satin nightgown, not caring nor
understanding how it fastened, but aware it was as silky to the touch
as her skin, that he could feel everything about her beneath it.

Kelsey shivered anew as his hands roamed her body like an explorer
might a new terrain, eager to discover each hitherto unknown valley or
mountain, desperate to capture it all.  His hands were firm and
masterful, knowledgeable even in mystery.

His lips captured hers, not lightly now, not in friendship, but in
demand, in hot, harsh want.  His body pressed against hers, letting her
know how she aroused him and she half rolled into him, slipping her leg
around his, aching for closer contact.

He tasted of the pizza she'd given him for dinner, the iced tea he'd
drunk with it.  He tasted like autumn, like walks in the woods.  And he
moved against her with the surety of autumn clouds moving across a
near-winter sky, with purpose , heavy with need.

He neither hurried nor seemed slow in his deliberate ministrations. His
hands cupped her face, played in her hair, dipped beneath the scooped
neckline of her negligee to the aching breasts beneath it, searing her
with his touch: His fingertips snared a taut nipple and played it
between pad and fingernail, so gently, so lightly, she felt his hand a
magnet and her body unalloyed iron.  She arched sharply to him and he
applied greater pressure, greater urgency with his lips,

with his fingertips.  She bit her lower lip to withhold the qgroan of
longing he induced.

He shifted his mouth, his heated tongue, from her throat, loq'er,
lazily trailing a blaze across her collarbone to the rounded scallop of
her negligee.  With his tongue he traced _the contact point of the
satin's edge with her skin, making txr shiver, making her want to
writhe.  He raised his hands to her shoulders and slowly slid the
straps from her arms.  Raising her slightly, pulling the negligee down,
he followed its removal with his lips, kissing her shoulders, her
collarbone , her breasts, first one, then the other.

He rolled her over him, sliding the soft material from her as he did
so.  His fingers lingered against her hips, gently explored her rounded
buttocks, her satin legs.  She moaned at his touch, at the promise in
his lips, and wantonly kicked away the negligee.

She reached for his shoulders, and, in her eagerness, her feeling of
drowning in sensation, fumbled with the already unbuttoned cotton,
struggling to free him, desperate for the fql of his skin against hers.
Finally, she accomplished her task and, raising above him, arching her
back sharply, she qtbrew open the sides of his shirt, tugging the last
of his tails from his trousers.  She slid her hands around him and
pulled ;q to her, herself down to him.  q=His skin was hot against
hers, and she could feel his rtb eat pounding against her aching
breasts.  His lips reqaptured hers, his tongue beating a rapid message,
a code of e kind, a promise.  His hands roamed her body more idly now,
as though he were memorizing the texture of skin, the curves and
flares.  q'" In a fluid motion, he again rolled her over, this time
beth him.  Dipping his head, he nipped at her breasts, tly, playfully,
then with assiduous attention.  He pulled slightly, exposing her bare
body to his hungry gaze.

He watched as he touched her, watched her reactions, , as though his
hands belonged to someone else,

watched his fingers as they circled her turgid nipples, taking them and
pulling softly, shaping and reshaping.  He replaced his fingers with
his mouth, his tongue.  When she arched upward, he pushed her back
against the bed, still teasing her nipples, laving the sensitive
underside of her breasts.  Straddling her knees, he cupped the shape of
her breasts, molding his hands to her form, stroking her, caressing ,
imploring.  He slipped his hands behind her, beneath her, and kneaded
gently, then with greater purpose.  She couldn't have withheld the moan
that escaped her.

Sliding from the end of the bed, he trailed his hands down her legs,
massaging her, letting his hands say far more than words could ever
have supplied.

"My God," he said as he stood.  "There isn't a woman in the world as
beautiful as you are, Kelsey."

Languorous in his regard, liquefied from his hands, his mouth, she
could only stare up at him, taking in his bared chest, his throbbing
body.  He shrugged and his shirt fell to the floor.  His hands moved to
the fastening of his pants and she found her mouth was dry in sharp
anticipation.

His pants dropped to the floor to join his shirt and he stepped free of
the constrictive undergarment.  Her breath caught.

He had called her beautiful; he was a Greek statue come to life, all
muscles, curves and angles.  He bent over his; clothing and pulled
something free.  She heard the rip of the foil wrapper and was grateful
for the sound, the consideration One touch from him, and all practical
considerations had flown from her mind.  " " Thank you," she said
shakily.  " " I would have forgot- q ten."

"I almost did, too," he said huskily.  "Hell, you make me' forget my
own name."

She heard the rubbery rustle, caught a slight whiff of the plastic odor
and shivered again.  This was real, this was happening.  The thought
made her insides coil tighter, her anticipation build another notch.

"It's John," she murmured.

"Ah-h-h.  Then you must be Kelsey."

Somehow the light banter took on greater meaning than either might have
intended.  It sounded almost algebraic-if A, then B. if it was John,
then it could only be Kelsey.  The notion warmed her, made her smile.

"Oh, yes," she said, reaching up for him.

She expected him to again stretch out beside her, but he didn't.  He
crawled onto the bed over her, facing her, planting his knees beside
her feet.  She felt him touch her calves, her knees, and moaned as his
hands again met her body.

With his nails, he brushed the crisp, curly hair at the apex of her
thighs.  "You're still blond, here," he said.

Her smile broadened, but she didn't say anything.

"I like knowing secrets," he said, his voice husky, his breath hot
against his discovery.

At his first touch, she jumped, unused to such a riot of iensation,
such a beautiful fire that he created in her, unqiliar with the sheer
wanton pleasure his fingers, his #ongue,produced.

Her body arched to meet him, her legs involuntarily qpening to grant
him greater purchase.  He touched her as !  lqough he were a sculptor
and she the willing body of clay.  qie stroked and shifted, molded and
moved, plied and qeqased her until she felt she was nothing more than a
stunqmg creation of pure molten fire.  qa: "please," she murmured, her
fingers pulling at him, ing him.  "The raw note of appeal in her voice
nearly undid him.  was so much he wanted to give her, so much he ached
ltr have her feel, and so little time.  Just one night, one night.  For
tomorrow would bring regrets, con fun ; and, in all probability, one
very real Winslow.  And then he'd be gone.  One way or another, John
would be gone.

So tonight, right now, he had to complete every fantasy, every dream
either one of them had ever harbored.  Her closed eyes, her hands now
clutching the satin bedspread as though she needed grounding, her
inchoate pleas, all conspired to make him hurry this moment, rush the
exquisite pleasure inherent in her body, in her unconscious trust.  But
he couldn't do that to her, wouldn't do it to himself.

She'd been hurt before, and tonight, tonight was his chance to erase
those memories, not forever, but for now.  Tonight was his opportunity
to supplant the pain with pleasure, to override the fear with ecstasy.
And to seize every pleasured sigh, each writhing motion for himself.

"Oh..  John," she whispered, and he had to fight the urge to raise his
head, to bury himself in her warmth, her liquid longing.  Her fingers
tugged at his hair, pulling more sharply now, and he could feel her
legs quivering, her muscles tightening and he pressed on, refusing to
abandon her there, to leave her stranded on that plane of
incompletion.

He moaned in answer to her short, ragged breaths.  He felt he would die
at any moment.  Her taste was honeyed and her feel liquid satin.  Her
legs arced outward, trembling, quivering And still he wouldn't stop. He
slid his fingers deeper, kneaded her buttocks, kissed away tomorrow,
kissed the past farewell.

Then he felt her convulse around him, arching off the bed, a swift
bucking and her muscles pulled at him sharply, strongly.

And his resistance eroded, his control shattered.

She felt she had been consumed by the fire he started in her, and flung
to the far ends of the earth, neither in this body, nor away from it,
but somewhere in between.  She opened her eyes and saw him rise above
her, his eyes ablaze with want, with need.

His hands scooped her up, yanking her limp form to him, holding her
tightly, fiercely.  His elbows braced them both and with a harsh, raw
groan, he slid into her, making her cry out, not in pain but in intense
relief.  They moaned simultaneously , and equally in tune, began to
sway.  Slowly, achingly slowly, they moved apart, then together,
seeking that perfection she knew instinctively they could share.

She ran her hands down his back, across his buttocks, and felt his
fingers tighten on her shoulders.  She raised her legs and locked her
ankles over his thighs.  He made some sound, a ragged, dissonant sound
of supplication, and pressed deeper, and deeper still.

His breathing snagged, then resumed, rougher now, and as ragged as his
voice had been.  He moved swifter, faster.  Deeper, harder, taking her
with him, growling something, a thousand promises, as he rocked.

She clung to him, pulled him tightly against her, needing to feel his
full weight against her, wanting it, craving it.  He drove harder,
faster yet, and she pressed sharply against his rigid buttocks, calling
his name out loud.

As if this were a trigger, he arched upward suddenly, rconvulsed, and
ground out her name through clenched ;: teeth, clamped jaw.  His body
violently shook, and hers did, q q well.  She felt him shaking her
inside and out, calling for her, begging her to stay with him, to
follow him.  qq The fury, the explosiveness of his release sparked anh
, ether of her own and she held him, clung to him despery as she again
scattered into a million glassy shards, qeding to stay with him so that
she wouldn't be lost in hat ever world he'd taken her to, so that she
could find her y back home.  Home with him.

And she felt him there, in the multicolored universe he'd un them to,
the dazzling, dizzying rainbow lights that ounded them both, nurtured
them, caressed them as finished the most primeval of waltzes.

All too soon the shaking, thrusting dance was ended, the lights dimmed
and the mystical music wound to a halt.  But he didn't move from her,
and she held him tightly to her, cradling him, soothing him as gently
as he'd stroked her earlier.

She had never felt more in tune with anyone in her entire life, thought
she never would again.  It was as if, in their exchange , they had
melded more than bodies, more than the need in either of them.  It was
as if their very souls had conjoined , had blended, fusing together in
a single, wholly precious moment of unity.

It wasn't until his breathing had slowed to a deep, regular pattern,
until his heartbeat had steadied to a soft, rhythmic thudding, that she
loosened her fierce-gentle hold on him.

"I wish tonight would never end," she murmured against his cheek,
against the roughness of his after-five shadow.

He stiffened slightly, then relaxed again.  "The night is young," he
said, stroking her hair, pressing his lips to her shoulder.

The night was young, he'd said, and he was right.  The hours stretched
before them like jewels on an unguarded beach.  But she'd caught the
nuance in his stiffening, in his cautious words.  Tonight would end.

And tomorrow, with its uncertainty, its lack of definition , would dawn
all too soon.

Chapter 9

Friday, November 12 8: OS a. m. , Dallas, Texas

Bill qlipped open the thick Houston Yellow Pages the maid had secured
for him.  He tipped her five dollars.  He might need her again.

He looked up Women's Services first, then, at the cross reference ,
turned back to the counseling section and griqaced at the number of
referral services listed.  But he knew that diligence paid off.  It
always did.

He hauled the phone from the end table to a comfortable place on the
bed.  He leaned back against the pillows and punched out the first
number.

He introduced himself as John Chandler with the FBI.  He smiled.

He struck pay dirt on the fifteenth call.

All in all, he thought, it helped to know the right people.

7day, November 12 30 a. m. " Lubbock, Texas

* * *

John stood in the shower far longer than was necessary.  He let the
water play over his slightly aching muscles, his stiff back, his weary
head.  He lathered himself and watched as the suds sluiced down the
drain trailed by warm, clear water.  If only illusions could be as
easily rinsed away.

Everything about the night before stood out in his mind.  The touch of
her, the feel of her velvet skin against his, her honeyed scent and
warm hands.  And, dear God, her total and wholly unconscious trust in
him.

He had wanted that trust, had craved it.  Drew it out and buried
himself in it again and again and again.  And what he'd feared most had
happened.  She'd reached inside him and snapped the lock on a door he'd
always made certain stayed sealed.

He was a different man this morning.  A different person The John
Chandler of the past was just that-the past.  He felt stripped of his
defenses, shorn of his guards.

What in the name of all that was holy was he going to do now?

This wasn't an assignment anymore.  It was a pledge.  And she wasn't a
case, she was a part of him.  How could he possibly remain
objective-not, he admitted wryly, that he'd been anything resembling
objective from the very beginning when it came to Kelsey-when
protecting her was no longer a matter of hope, a matter of skill, but
one of absolute necessity?

He'd never felt so frightened of anything in his entire life.

Friday, November 12 8: 45 a. m. , Lubbock, Texas

Kelsey absently fixed breakfast, bacon and eggs, toast, even fried hash
browns.  Her mind was on the sound of the shower, on the man inside
it.

He had taken her places the night before that she'd never dreamed of
seeing, shown her the priceless treasures of his touch, his heart.

And this morning she was afraid of him.

Not afraid he would hurt her, per se, but afraid of the intimacy they'd
created the night before.  It seemed too isolated an intimacy, too
intense a meeting.  They had shared every nuance of what a union could
be, could mean.  They had tasted every drop of paradise and ttqen had
had to wake up to reality.

She was certain he'd seen that reality in her wary, confused gaze, in
her swiftly averted face.  She'd felt it in his slow, almost apologetic
touch as she rose from the tousled bed.

And she'd known that she'd hurt him somehow, when he left her bedroom,
going to his own room and a separate shower.  She'd felt he was taking
the sun with him as he left, for all the warmth he'd created the night
before went with him.  And all the trust.

The reality was unjust, she thought angrily, because it spelled out too
many things she wished were simply left nebulous, forgotten in the wake
of their loving through the night.  But the reality was clear: John was
on assignment; she was just a case.  She resented a hero; he reveled in
being one.  qtnd the day was bright, too sunny, and she was only a
shell of the woman he'd helped her find the night before.

Dear God, what was she going to do?  How could she face him now, no
guards, no defenses, and worse, with no fears?  ow could she be tough
when she felt so weak, so soft?  The phone rang and she turned the
burners off before ing to answer it.  At the last second she remembered
qn,s tracing device, the instructions he'd yelled at her afshe 'd
tripped the alarm.  She smiled slightly, flipped the 's plastic lid
open and waited for the classic green light re lifting the phone
receiver.  if Hello?  "

"Is this Kelsey Dobson?"  a male voice asked.  He sounded choked with
emotion.  She could empathize.  She was too.  At least he seemed able
to voice his.

"Who is this, please?"  she counter questioned from long habit, and
with John's explicit instructions in mind.  But she felt no fear.  She
watched the little tracer device blipping and heard its computer like
hum.  She would have to ask John how far-reaching it was, if it was
hooked into a larger machine somewhere, a broader complex.

The man on the phone gave a short, bitten-off sob.  " " I hit my wife.
I don't know what to do.  I think..  I think I need help.  A friend
gave me your name.  Said you might be able to talk to me.  Or talk to
her.  Said you know about these things.  " Another sob followed his
pathetic tale.

Kelsey felt her stomach tighten, her heart soften.  The man sounded in
terrible pain over what he'd done.  It wasn't rare for a man to feel
horrible about hitting his wife, but it was fairly uncommon for the
husband to be the one seeking the help.

For this reason alone, Kelsey resolved to do all she could for him.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I know how much pain you must be feeling.  And
your wife, too."

"Oh, God," he moaned.  "You don't have any idea."

Kelsey caught a glimpse of John coming down the stairs and forced
herself to turn and face him.  She was sorry she had, for she felt her
reaction to him to her very core.

His hair was freshly combed, his shirt crisp and buttoned Socks and
shoes covered his feet.  He looked ready for anything, and totally
closed to her at the same time.  He raised his eyebrows in question,
but looked as though he were vastly relieved to have business to attend
to, not to have to face her without some kind of task between them.

She shook her head, but wasn't sure what she was telling him with the
negative.  That the person on the phone had nothing to do with his
"case" Or was it deeper than that,

something to do with the harsh reality of day when contrasted with the
soft shadows of last night?

The tracer device beeped as the small machine let them know the origin
of the call had been located.

"Hello?"  the voice in her ear quavered.  "Are you there?  Can you do
something?  "

"I'm afraid I don't normally handle things like you're talking about,
Mr..  ?"

" " I need some help !  " the man burst out.  " " Please, lady.  I need
help right now."  " " I can give you the names of several very
qualified"

"No."

Kelsey felt a sharp chill work through her at the single, muted
negative.  She nearly dropped the telephone in sudden , skin-crawling
revulsion.  She knew that voiq.  She knew it as intimately and
thoroughly as she knew her own voice, had known John's the night
before.

Bill Winslow.

She had heard him use just that muted tone before lifting his hand to
her, had heard that same implacable note before he'd stripped her and
made her beg for mercy.  She'd heard it during his trial when the
defense attorney had asked him if he had intentionally hired someone to
kill his wife.

"No," he'd said then.  And he'd sounded just as uncompromising

She felt a gut-wrenching fear gnaw through her icy veins and the fear
was fueled by the realization that he knew who she was.  He'd found her
assumed identity.

Bill knows my name, she thought wildly.  If he knew that, he knew more,
he knew where she was.

She turned to John in unspoken supplication.

She didn't know what expression rested on her features, but it must
have spelled out her sudden anxiety with crystal clarity for it
galvanized John into swift action.  He waved a hand at her to keep
talking and slowly picked up the small receiver on the tracer device
and held it to his ear before depressing the listening switch.  He
nodded to her.

Her hand shook as she again placed the receiver to her ear.  She felt
she might be sick, but with John's hand beckoning her to continue, she
said with scarcely a noticeable tremor in her voice, "I'm sorry, sir,
I-I don't think I can help you."

"But you have all the answers.  I've been told you know everything."

"

" S-sir"

"Don't be so modest.  You can't fool me."  A low, rasping laugh, the
kind he'd always emitted just before testing some new heinous
punishment, seemed to waft evilly from the telephone.

Kelsey bit her lip to keep from crying out.  And at the same time,
clamped them firmly to withhold the too long, pent-up rage she wanted
to unleash upon him.  She wanted to scream at him, to yell every
invective ever created, to rip him with the sharp edge of language.

"Tsk-tsk, Kelsey," he murmured.  "You never could do anything right."

"Damn you!"  she yelled, and hurled the receiver from her, sending it
flying to the end of its bouncy, curly cord.  It seemed to dangle in
midair, like a cartoon image, then jounce back at her, striking the bar
instead in a deafening clatter.  She ducked, reflexively, and then
stared at it as though it were a physical connection to Bill, as though
his voice had turned it into a snake and it might bite her.

John swiftly retrieved it and lifted it to his ear.  "He's " g , gone,
he said, not lookin at her not even re all aware of her, she thought,
watching as he dropped it back onto the wall base.  He yanked it back
up almost immediately, apparently heard the dial tone he wanted, then
without setting the tracer receiver down, punched in a string of
numbers.

" " Our boy's just checked in..  no, I don't know how he got the
number.  I didn't get a chance to ask him," he said dryly.

"Here's the coordinates the tracer logged."  He read off two different
sets of numbers.

"Yeah, as soon as you can.  Yesterday would be good.

Now, look, we're going to want two more teams, circles of eight
blocks..  Twenty-four hours..  Make it three days.

Right.  Call as soon as you hear.  " He listened for a moment , then
all but exploded into the phone, " He's what?  "

Kelsey stepped back a pace at the harsh overtone of shock and fear that
rippled through those two words.  Was she reading him right?  John was
scared?  If John.  was feeling fear then something was terribly,
terribly wrong.

"Damn it, get those teams in here, now.  "

He replaced both sets of receivers and slowly closed the lid on the
tracer device.  He stood for a moment with his back to her, his hands
resting palms down on the bar.  Finally he turned around.

"Okay, that's it.  He knows where you are.  He'll be on his way."

Kelsey felt as if she might faint.  It had been one thing to argue with
John about staying there when Bill Winslow was in V'qrginia.  It had
been fairly easy to argue that she felt safer in her own home than
elsewhere when Bill was out there somewhere not knowing her new
identity, not aware of her life in Lubbock.  It had all been easy
because it was the truth.

But now it seemed an entirely different matter altogether after
actually hearing his voice again, knowing he'd found her, knowing he
was really coming after her.  It made all her talk of preparation,
professionalism, even anger, sound like the braggadocio of a
second-grader on the first day of scllool.  I ain't a-scared of him I
can punch his lights out any q: day.

Any day was here, and she didn't think she'd be able to walk to the
kitchen without help, let alone take on her exi:::.

husband.  Fspecially now that he'd graduated from socio to psychopath.
She drew a deep, steadying breath.

She knew what she had to do.  She knew how to do it.  The time had
come; that was the only real difference.  The long, long wait was
finally going to be over.

"Why did you say, " he's what?  " " she asked.  It seemed to be the
only rational thought in her head.

John frowned heavily.  "Our investigators found his fingerprints all
over the medical supplies salesman's car.  And in the doctor's office.
West Virginia's pushing for extradition"

It was a perfectly logical explanation, she thought, but she knew it
wasn't what had made him pale, wasn't what had made him stand with his
back to her, shoulders rigid with shock.

"If he's caught," she said.  Should she push him on the question? Would
it be like the night before, no then yes?

"When.  When we nail him, he'll be going up on murder one."

"You're trying to say we don't have to kill him now, is that it?"  she
asked.  Her fear was steadily receding.  Was it because he no longer
looked frightened, or was it deeper than that?  Was it because she had
the feeling he was protecting her from something and she resented it?

John frowned sharply.  "No, that's not what I'm saying at all, Kelsey.
What I'm trying to tell you is that we can go to a safe house now. It's
not just a matter of an ex-husband with a bad case of sour grapes. He's
a killer, a rabid dog.  And now he'll be locked up forever."

"But he's out there now, free."  Tell me, she begged silently ,
unwilling to voice the command-plea aloud.

"He won't be free for long.  He's leaving too wide a trail."

"He's in Texas now.  He's killed two, probably more, people."  She saw
his eyes flicker, read some unspoken emotion in the swift, hot gaze.
"He doesn't have anything to lose," she said honestly, callously.

"Exactly.  Which is why I'm reneging on our bargain.  We're getting you
out of here and to a safe house.  Right now.  This minute."

"No," she said again.  But she wanted to ask him why, why now?  Why
after last night, after the past two days?  What had he heard during
that phone call that made such a tough FBI agent like John Chandler so
afraid he wasn't thinking straight?

She could see he wasn't going to tell her.

Instead he said, "Look.  He is undoubtedly on his way here already.
We've got people at the airports, the bus stations , but we had people
at the airports two days ago, and he still got in."

" " Leaving a trail of dead bodies behind, " she offered in a falsely
reasonable tone.

He snapped at her.  "Precisely why I'm not leaving you here to be
number four."

"

" Number four?  "

"

"They matched his prints in the beauty shop, too."

Kelsey was silent.  "Did she dye his hair first?"

"Damn it, Kelsey!  What the hell difference does that make?  He killed
her.  After" He bit off whatever he was about to say.  He needn't have
bothered, she thought.  She knew Bill.

"Was that what made you go pale?"  she asked.

He nodded once, sharply, and then turned his head aside.  His mouth was
set in a fierce, grim line His hands were clenched deeply in his
pockets.

She didn't want to know any more.  Didn't need to know the details,
didn't want to hear whatever horror Bill had done to make John look
sick.

In an odd sort of way she felt somewhat vindicated.  Certainly she
wasn't relieved that anyone else was terrorized by Bill Winslow.  And
to give him his due, John had always believed her about her husband's
capabilities.  But that parole board, those idiots who had smilingly
signed his re lease, the judge who had issued a concurrent sentence,
thereby shortening what should have been life into a capsulized three
years, all of those people would have to sleep with what they had done,
not just to her now, but to three other families, as well.

God, how she hated the justice system for it.  Hated Bill for it.  Was
even mad at John for not understanding her wholly justified anger.  She
must have made some sound of disgust for he shot her a hard look.

"There's only one body I don't want left behind now," he said.

She smiled coolly.  "That makes two of us," she said.

He smiled back, but she could see that he was far from easy, a Grand
Canyon away from relaxed.  The smile didn't even come close to touching
his eyes.  She felt as if she might be looking in a mirror at a male
version of herself.  The thought unnerved her a little.

He ground out, "So you see, we still have time to get to a safe
house."

"No," she repeated.  She went back into the kitchen.  She dished out a
plate of the cooling eggs, bacon and hash browns.  She had forgotten
toast.  He could have cereal, she thought wryly.  She almost said as
much aloud, but didn't think he'd appreciate the humor at the moment.

"Kelsey..."

"Give it up, John.  We both know Bill."  It was odd to think of a man
capable of killing so many people as even possessing a first name.
Someone who was able to kill murder -three people, try to kill a
fourth, shouldn't have such simple humanity as that denoted by a first.
name, a nickname at that.

She went on.  "He's on the run, he's obviously ruthless.  He's managed
to avoid every man the FBI had in place to stop him.  What's going to
stop him in Lubbock?"

"Me," he said.

"Not if you're playing nursemaid in some safe house.  We've been over
and over this.  Don't you see?  Let's say he gets here and is watching
my place after you've gotten me away.  It won't take him long to figure
out I wasn't here.  He knows me.  I may have changed, but no one
changes that much.  He was married to me for ten years.  He probably
knows my small habits better than I do."

What had she said to spark a spasm of pain across John's face, to make
him look as though she'd struck him?  The fact that she'd been married
to Bill for ten years?  He knew that.  That Bill knew her habits?  He
would have to know them.  Just as she knew his, which, she thought, was
a singular ace up her skintight sleeve.  " " Kelsey - "

She interrupted whatever he'd been about to say.

"And your " team' might never even see him.  Probably won't, because
that's how he operates.  He was only trierl for conspiracy to commit
murder, you know, not all the million little schemes and scams he had
running.  fIe's smooth, and he's good.  So, he'll get here and see your
team, and then he'll go into hiding.  And wait.  " She slammed the
plate of still cooling food down on the countertop.  The plate didn't
break, though she couldn't have said why not.

"Are you through?"  he asked.

"No.  No, I'm not.  The program hides me, changes my name, my life.
Bill waited three years, writing horrible things in that damned journal
of his.  He gets out and in less than three days has already found me
again," she said.  She marched across the kitchen, planting her hands
against the bar separating them.  "And you and I both know that it
would only be a matter of time before he finds me again."

"If it hadn't been for that damned jiggy-headed friend of yours"

"He would still have found me, John.  And you know it.  Jilly made it
faster, sure.  But that's all she did.  He would have discovered some
other means, some other way.  That's how he is.  Relentless.  "

He didn't say anything and she pressed on.  "He's after me.  He's got
nothing to lose now.  He'll just keep coming."  q "He's killed too many
times, now," John said.  He looked mad enough to come over the counter
at her.  And sad enough to simply turn away.  He looked as though he
had expected the change in her the night before to be absolute, to have
eradicated every vengeful thought she ever had.  Well, she thought
harshly, what she felt wasn't vengeance, but the need for pure and
simple survival.

"He'll never walk the streets again."

"No.  That's not going to cut it.  He didn't kill those people because
of some vendetta with them, he probably wasn't even angry.  They just
represented an obstacle to him, an obstacle to getting to me.  " She
held on to the bar as if it were the only constant in a world gone
crazy.

She went on angrily, desperately.  "That's all I was to him three years
ago.  Something in his way!  Now, if he comes here and can't find me,
he'll wait again.  And when you're gone, when your team isn't there
anymore, even if I've gone back into hiding, have a different name, a
different town, another new life, he's going to find me."

A racking sob nearly choked her and she had to close her eyes before
continuing.  "But, then, you wouldn't be there."  The words were out of
her mouth before she'd thought them through, before she'd given them
any kind of consideration They seemed to hang on the air like the
lingering scent of coffee, the smells of the bacon and eggs, more real
somehow than she would have guessed they could be.

He rounded the bar and took hold of her shoulders, shaking her
slightly.  She hadn't even realized that she'd been all but screaming
at him, hadn't known tears were streaming down her face.  But they
weren't tears of pain, tears of fear.  They were tears of anger, of the
need to endure.  " " Okay, Kelsey.  Okay.  "

"I want it finished, John.  One way or another.  I don't even care
which outcome it is.  Don't you see?  It just has to be over.  It has
to be over.  " '

John didn't want to argue with her.  Couldn't.  She was right.  It did
have to be over.  It had to be finalized once and for all.  And he was
going to see that it was.

Kelsey's angry, tear-streaked face, her defiance, her analysis of the
situation, had nearly torn him apart.  He pulled her roughly into his
arms, held her fiercely to him.  "You're right, Kelsey.  Oh, honey,
you're right.  We won't go anywhere, we'll stay here.  We'll get him."
He stroked her hair with his hand, pressed her face against his chest.
He could feel her tears, hot and damp, felt her shaking shoulders , her
trembling body.

And he vowed she would never cry over Winslow again.  Never be afraid
of him again.  Never, ever, have to face the future with Winslow
dogging her.  I promise you this, Kelsey , he thought, but couldn't say
the words aloud because they needed a concluding phrase..  something he
couldn't give her, something like, I promise because I'll be there for
you, in the future

"If we don't finish it now, today, tomorrow, then sometime very very
soon," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.  "Nights like
last night are just m-moments, just s-something to lock away like a
photograph or a scrapbook I can't live like that, John.  I need more
than that."

She wasn't talking about just the need for resolution with Bill
Winslow.  He knew she meant far more than that, even if she wasn't
aware of it.

He didn't know what to say to her, didn't know what he was really
feeling.  Shocked, irrevocably altered, scared, even numb.  And mad as
hell at Bill Winslow.  And himself for not knowing how to match her
honesty, not having the words to tell her what the night had meant to
him, that he recognized what she had done to and for him.  That it had
been far more than one-sided.

But as usual, the pretty phrases wouldn't come, couldn't make their way
from his heart to his mouth.

"Do you always have this much trouble with your cases?"  she asked,
laying it on the line, her voice almost childlike in her earnest need
to know.

"No, Kelsey," he said immediately.  He gave the ghost of a chuckle.
"You're anything but a routine assignment."  He still couldn't give her
the words, a phrase that would promise a tomorrow, the simple words
that would turn things around, make everything okay.  He was the doctor
who patched the wound, but withheld the prognosis of hope.

But, strangely-and somehow hurting him, though he didn't know why-those
he said seemed to be enough for Kelsey.  Her hands circled his waist
and clung tightly.  The humor she'd shown him the night before bounced
back.  "Well, that's good to know.  I'd hate to be routine," she said,
and gave a slightly watery chuckle.

He wondered if he imagined her lips had pressed, for the merest
heart-stopping second, against his chest.

"I'm all better now," she said, and pulled away.

He thought, she's lying.  She was far from okay and his words were far
from all she needed to hear, deserved to hear.

He sighed heavily.  He wasn't the man to tell her.

But he wished to hell he was.

Kelsey swallowed.  It was less a matter of moistening her throat than
keeping down a host of half-baked ideas, unformed questions.  But had
he read them in her eyes?  Could he read them in her touch, in his?
He'd read her without hesitation the night before, had known
everything, anything , about her without question.  Why were there so
many unanswered queries now?

"It'll be all right, Kelsey," John said heavily, sighing a little as he
spoke.  He sounded tired, not sleepy, but bone weary, filled with the
kind of ennui that assails overworked FBI agents on assignments that
have gone awry.

His tone rankled, it conjured too many contrasting emotions from those
he'd inspired the night before.  Only hours before, she corrected
herself.  He couldn't know it would be all right.  No one could know.
And no one should make promises they couldn't guarantee.

Least of all John Chandler whose very touch was a promise in and of
itself.

"I'm sorry for falling apart," she said stiffly, turning away from
him.

"Don't apologize for that," he said, letting her go.  Too easily, she
thought, really hurting now.

"Was there something else I should be apologizing for?"  she asked
sharply, meeting his gaze with a stringent, go-to hell look and then
turning her back on him.  She could see from his shocked expression
that she'd hit the mark, though she didn't have the slightest clue what
he thought she should be apologizing for.  Wanting him?  Trusting
him?

"No," he said, but the quick, rough rub of his jawline said
otherwise.

"There's too much between us now for cat and mouse " , she said.

"And there's not near enough to warrant you lashing out at me like
this," he responded tersely.

She felt as if he'd slapped her.  He was right, she shouldn't have
verbally taken a hit at him.  Her only excuse was that it was backlash
from Bill Winslow, from the years of learning to mask her feelings by
hiding behind others.  But when he negated last night, when he said
there wasn't near enough between them..  she felt she wanted to curl
up, shrivel away.

That couldn't be true.  Could it?  "

" Kelsey..  "

Again she tried hiding.  "It doesn't matter, anyway, does it?"  she
asked.

He paused for what seemed like minutes.  Then he sighed
harshly-angrily?  -and finally said, "Kelsey..  we don't have time to
philosophize about this."

"You're right," she said, not agreeing with him in the slightest, but
accepting the inevitable.  "We don't."

She started to leave the room.  " " Kelsey.  " qShe didn't turn around
to look at him, she only stopped at the base of the broad stairs and
waited.  " "I hate that this is happening now.  I didn't know what to
say to you this morning.  But I didn't mean to duck out of it this way.
Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," she said.  She half wished he hadn't added this , hadn't so
swiftly cut to that proverbial chase, hadn't so immediately defused her
anger, her hurt, with his honesty.  As long as she could hate him for
belittling what had passed between them the night before, she would be
safe.

Without that anger, she would be forced to truly acknowledge the events
of the morning, the feelings he roused in her.  Even though she'd
resented him reverting to the professional agent, she would have
welcomed hating him for being insensitive, could have whipped her anger
to a fever pitch and used it to survive the next few minutes, hours,
days.

But he had brought the night into the day and was now waiting for an
answer.  This was the agent, and he was also the man who had loved her
more tenderly, more thoroughly than anyone had ever done.  He deserved
more than her childish anger, her fear-guided temper.

"I'm listening," she said.  "

" What happened last night..  "

She didn't turn around when he trailed off, but she did smile
crookedly.  "If you say it shouldn't have happened, I'll open fire on
you."

She heard the merest breath of a chuckle.

"I won't, then," he said, effectively saying it, anyway.

"Good," she said, thinking it was anything but that.  "Because then I'd
have to tell you those bacon and eggs on the stove weren't for you."

"I'll put them in the microwave," he said.

"You eat.  I'm going upstairs for a little while," she said.  Stop me,
she begged silently.  Hold me.

He paused, then said slowly, disappointing her, "Listen.  This is for
real now.  Stay away from all windows.  Even if you hear something
outside, don't go near a window.  And, if you love me, lock your
bedroom door anytime you go in there.  And don't open it for anyone but
me.  Got that?"

She felt as though his words were an odd sort of epitaph to their union
that had lasted only one night, one silken blanket of hours, a hiatus
in a storm she didn't even understand Ifyocc love me, he'd said.  But
the phrase had been offhand.

Or had it?

"No one but you," she said softly but very pointedly.

She mounted the stairs without asking the most obvious question of all,
a question that only occurred to her now with horrible implication.
What if you aren't there to be the one knocking on the door?

John watched her stiff form climbing the stairs, feeling as if the best
part of him were leaving with her.  Who but Kelsey could have come up
with a semi humorous line in the face of such incredible danger?

He'd seen the look on her face at her recognition of the voice on the
telephone.  She had been mind-shatteringly terrified , her lovely face
drained of color, her lips suddenly dry and pale, her eyes wide with
confusion and abject horror.

And suddenly whatever hatred, whatever disgust, he'd felt for Bill
Winslow before escalated.  That this man could do this to Kelsey, when
only hours before John had seen her skin dewy with passion, her eyelids
languorous, his name upon her lips, made him actively hate Bill
Winslow.

He didn't want to fan her anger, he'd discovered a different passion in
her now.  He'd diffused that fury and turned the hunger, the need,
elsewhere.  But what she needed from him at this moment, what she
craved most from him, he couldn't give.  She needed a new future, a
real future.  And he was a man who lived in today only, from one
assignment to another, never pondering the vague, uncertain tomorrow

Kelsey was one woman in a million.  In a hundred million If ever there
was a woman to make him catch a glimpse of a future, it was her.  But,
in an odd way, she was like him; she also wasn't living for tomorrow,
for a future.  She was living for a single moment in time, a
confrontation.  A shootout at the Not Okay corral.  Winslow or her.
John sighed.  He knew all Kelsey wanted.  He knew it because he knew
himself too well and understood that confrontations and futures don't
mix.

But somehow, this morning, he couldn't seem to think straight.  Too few
hours of sleep, too many memories of Kelsey in his arms.  Whatever the
cause, this morning all he could seem to understand clearly was that
Kelsey might very well be that one woman to break his heart, or if not
break it, throw it open so widely, so completely, that he wouldn't ever
be the same again.

It was the same thing, wasn't it?

He turned to the kitchen, eyed the cold breakfast with total distaste.
He scraped the nauseating mess back into the frying pan, poured himself
a cup of coffee and leaned against the bar, lost in thought.

He knew it wasn't the thought of reheating the breakfast that made him
feel ill.  It was remembering what Connie at FBI headquarters in
Lubbock had told him about Winslow 's latest victim, a
twenty-six-year-old Denver airport beautician.  Winslow had smothered
her with one of her own plastic cover-ups and, in his now familiar
perversion, had pasted a photograph of Kelsey over her face.

No message could have been more clear.

When the phone rang, he scarcely jumped.  He simply flicked open the
tracer, waited for it to activate, then picked up the receiver.

He nodded twice before he realized that Connie couldn't see him.  He
thanked her for calling and replaced the receiver He should have
guessed, he thought.

Winslow was using his name.

FBI agent John Chandler had stayed in the Dallas Hilton the night
before.  The call had been traced from his room.  And now he was coming
after Bill Winslow's ex-wife, who was being protected by Agent John
Chandler.

The irony, the sheer audacity, was amazing.  For Winslow , using John's
own name, was now coming after the same John who had slept with Kelsey,
had now felt his entire life called into question, and most of all,
had, for the first time in his life, felt that budding promise of
tomorrow flicker for a moment on the far distant horizon.

Well, he thought grimly.  The fake John Chandler was going to have a
little surprise waiting for him.  The real McCoy could be just as
ruthless as his nasty counterpart.

Chapter 10

Friday, November 12 ll: 45 a. m. , Lubbock, Texas qone in her bedroom
behind the locked door, Kelsey checked, cleaned and reloaded her .  38
automatic and tucked it into her holster.  She waited for that feeling
of security, of safety to steal over her, but it didn't come.  She
hadn't worn her gun in two days, not since John had arrived on her
doorstep.

Now the .  38 felt heavy, awkward, cumbersome.  Was it really the gun,
or was it some part of her that now saw the weapon in a different
light?

She'd known that giving up her anger for passion would alter her, had
known it would cost her, but hadn't realized how far-reaching those
changes, those costs, would be.

Now, when she should be her very toughest, her most vigilant, all she
could seem to feel was a pervasive sorrow that she'd once again lowered
her guard for a morrrent.  She couldn't afford the luxury of placing
her heart in a man's hands.

She could tell herself all day that John was as different from Bill as
bananas were from pasta, but John was still a man, and she knew only
too well how trusting any man was the surest road to personal hell.

Still, there was something about John that touched her, and touched
deeply.  Too deeply perhaps.  There was a thread of sorrow that ran
through him, offset the slightly offbeat sense of humor, contrasted too
harshly with the gentle touch of his hands.  Was it this that allowed
them to come together , the fact that he had known great pain and fear,
too?

Until last night, she'd seen herself as wholly focused on survival, on
day-to-day existence, with the eventual hope of embarking on a journey
for the future, whatever that might prove to be.  But under John's
careful touch, coming alive at his kiss, she'd understood, perhaps for
the first time since her initial shock at discovering her husband had
hired someone to kill her, that she hadn't been planning for the
future.  She had been planning for only one moment of it, the moment
she and Bill Winslow would again cross paths.

She had fought, struggled daily, to shed the old Kelsey, to build a
strong, independent woman from the ashes.  But that slow, deliberate
construction hadn't been to ensure a tomorrow , just a single,
desperate eneounter.  She could see that all too clearly now, and was
afraid of it.  Afraid of how it made her feel, especially in light of
the night before.

That encounter was at hand now.  And yet, conversely, tomorrow seemed
the most precious of all things.  Her adrenaline was high, her body fit
and ready, and she had help waiting downstairs.  But where was the
sense of justification ?  Where was that surety that should accompany
the tingling nerves, the jangling fears?

It was, she thought with some discomfort, noticeably absent : Because
there was no future planned beyond that moment in time.  Was that why
last night had seemed so unbelievably perfect?  In John's arms, under
his loving regard , she could forget the present for a moment, ignore
the past and cast a thin line of hope to a vague and nebulous future.

But it was a future that he didn't believe in, either.  She could see
it in his face, feel it in his distance.  He, like she, didn't live for
tomorrows.  Only the present.  He was a man to whom the future was only
a vague concept, another assignment , another plane ticket, another
poor soul to save.

Glancing in the mirror, she wondered what John saw when he looked at
her.  Was it the frightened woman of three years ago?  The staunchly
independent warrior?  Or did he see something of both of those women in
her personality?  Or was there a different image altogether of the
woman who'd been in his arms last night?

Because she felt wholly different now, and saw him differently as well.
Never again would she be able to look at him and see only the FBI agent
assigned to Iqer case.  Never again would he be the nameless, faceless
stranger as he'd once, oh, so long ago called himself.  He would now
and forever be John Chandler, the man who had awakened her from a long
and restless sleep.

But in the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale, the prince had stayed, or at
least the story had led the reader to believe this was the case.  This
man was no Prince Charming.  He had little use for conversation and
less for tact.  He was duty bound, and constricted by the very laws he
sought to uphold

And yet his mouth had told her volumes last night, his hands had
created a symphony of beauty and his eyes had spoken every intimate,
magical word ever dreamed of by a maid whose heart had been broken too
many times, whose finger had been pricked on the spinning wheel of
justice and whose sleep had been that of self-imposed strength.

So why didn't she feel strong now?

Her reflection only stared back, wide-eyed, as uncertain as she.

And then it came to her, the reason for the uncertainty, the cause of
her confusion.  In the feelings he inspired in her, in the trust he'd
all too easily drawn from her the night before , John had stolen her
anger, sapped her resolve.

In the mirror, her reflection stood a little straighter, her jawline
tightened and her shoulders squared.  Somehow, in the past thirty-six
hours, since he'd stepped through her front gate, John Chandler had
swept away her determination for a showdown with Bill Winslow.  He'd
made it seem unlikely, improbable, maybe even silly.

It wasn't ridiculous.  It wasn't unthinkable.  It was a matter of
necessity.  Like her anger.  It was a matter of fact.  Bill was coming
to kill her, had killed three people, maybe more, in his eagerness to
do away with her.

And she'd allowed herself the luxury of leaning on John, of forgetting
what Bill would do to her if he did get through the team waiting
outside, did get past John.  She'd wallowed in the tomorrow less trust
John had sparked in her the night before.  She'd questioned her
motives, her desperate needs, and had stood here wondering about
futures.  She'd even allowed the mind-crippling fear to seep into her
body, infuse her veins with ice, because she'd forgotten her need to
rid the world of Bill once and for all.

She remembered now.  And if she refused to let memories of last night
enter her mind, if she firmly squelched the ready recognition that
sprang all too swiftly to her mind at the mere thought of his name, of
his face..  his touch..  she would be able to see this through.

She hadn't lied to John.  She'd meant every word she'd said to him
earlier, she did want it finished forever.  She couldn't live this way
anymore.  But, for the first time, she'd said it not from any misplaced
anger, but from the remembrance of their night together, spilling the
truth from the too short intimacy they had shared.

When the knock at her door was followed by John's voice, she only
turned to answer the door.  She told herself she wasn't looking at the
carefully made-up bed.  She was q evening spent together?  There was so
much more than that fairly sure she wasn't spending too much time
seeing his shirt he wanted to give her, to tell her about.  But there
was too draped over the back of her incidental chair.  And she was
little time and he had nothing to give, nothing concrete to quite
convinced that she'd already forgotten the torn foil offer.  wrappers
in the bedside wastebasket.  qpecially not when what she wanted most in
life was She turned the lock on the door when she heard his voice.
diametrically opposed to what he stood for.  She wanted to And knew,
when she saw his face, that if she believed any of kill Bill Winslow
when and if he should arrive.  That he the hogwash she'd been trying to
feed herself, she might just might want the same thing was irrelevant.
He was honor and as well put an offer in on a slightly used bridge in
Califor- duty bound to arrest the man, hand him over for the courts
nia.  to mete out justice.  But why was it that her way seemed to make
so much sense?  John searched her features for any resemblance to the
"I need to know everything you think Bill might do," he woman who had
shared his life last night.  He noted the gun said.  "You were married
to him, you know how he thinks.  strapped to her hip, the squared
shoulders.  What did that qat is he likely to do next?"  have to do
with anything?  he wondered, seeing as how he He saw her eyes flatten
slightly, assimilating his ques was also wearing a shoulder holster,
was himself tense with qon, trying to fit it into the pattern of what
was going on in anticipation, tight with controlled energy.  their
lives that morning.  He probed her eyes, hoping to see something of the
trust "He wasn't in Lubbock when he called," she said slowly, he d
engendered throughout their passionate night, want- q,ost a questioning
to see a measure of something besides her too-careful "No.  Dallas: He
pictured the two cities, both Texan, so anger.  different from each
other as to be located in other counHe saw what he'd seen in his own
eyes a hundred different times, that eagerness to resolve a case, an
awareness of mq.  One consisting of tall towers and bustling ambition,
the inherent dangers, and something more, a question perhaps the other
a sprawling land possessing wide lawns and slowhaps A question that
begged to know the next step, that talking citizenry.  demanded a
reward, a promise that when this was over, He had once been unable to
picture Kelsey in Lubbock, everything would turn up roses.  and now
found he could scarcely see her anywhere else.  Like It will, he wanted
to tell her, needed to tell her.  But he the desert painting over her
bed, like the city she lived in, couldn't.  Not only because he wasn't
some crystal ball qlqy was both lonely and strong, vulnerable and
venerareader who could predict a happy outcome, but because he ble with
ancient knowledge.  And she had a quirky sense of had never really been
able to believe in rosy futures him- humor that seemed appropriate for
the desert, a little dry,a self.  bit crusty.  But studying her now,
warrior to warrior, lover to lover,

She drew a deep breath.  "I don't think he'd use a com he found he'd
never wanted anything so much in his whole q merci al airline to get to
Lubbock.  By now, he would al life What had she said about friends,
that they were there ;q ready have conned someone into flying them here
in a for the high as well as the low points in life?  A pizza and an
q'q' private plane."

"That's good.  I'll call the local airport and alert them.  We'll put a
couple of people out there to watch for him."

"You won't recognize him."  _ "We'll check everyone getting off a
plane."

She smiled bitterly.  "He'll think of something."

"So will we," John said, and his words were more a vow than a simple
statement of fact.  But were they a vow for the assignment or a
personal pledge to Kelsey?

He didn't know and could tell by the puzzled look in her eyes that she
didn't, either.

"Do you like to fish?"  he asked.

She half smiled at his non sequitur, but didn't answer.  " " Because if
you do..  " he continued, striving to sound casual, trying to tell
himself that this wasn't a headlong leap into an uncertain future, only
something to ease the shadows in her gaze.  Just something between
friends.  " A friend of mine has a pretty tidy boat docked in North
Carolina.  We could take it out for a few days: '

Her smile broadened, and despite the rather wistful quality of that
gesture, he took heart.

"I think I'd like that," she said.

"It's a date, then," he answered, and felt they were doing things
backward.  They had already argued, already made love, already strapped
their guns on to fight the bad guy, and now they were making dates?  He
had to smile.

She smiled back, easier this time, less wistfully.

"Okay, now," he said, "I want to see what you can do.  If we're in this
thing together, and Lord knows we are, I want to know just how you
move, how you react."

A saucy light sprang into her beautiful eyes.  "Oh, I think you know
that fairly well."

He chuckled and felt as though a weight were rolling from his
shoulders.  What a hell of a team they made.  What a team they could
make.  And at that thought, he knew he was wrong, the weight hadn't
lifted, only changed position.  It wasn't on his shoulders anymore; it
lay heavy on his heart, making him feel slow and confused.  " " Can you
flip me?  " he asked, then tried thinking of another way to phrase it.
" You or anyone else," she promptly replied.  He grinned again.  This
was his Kelsey.  But why did the thought make him feel sad and more
than a little angry?  " Show me," he said.  " Anytime," she answered. 
" How about now?  " She didn't answer.  She merely stepped forward,
shot out a hand and gave a short, bloodcurdling yell.  He was on his
back in less time than it would have taken to tell about it.  He looked
up at her from the floor, not wondering how he got there, but how he
was ever going to bear to leave her when all this was over.  " That
what you had in mind?  " she asked, leaning over him.  It wasn't what
he had in mind at all.

Friday, November 12 2: SOp.  m. " Lubbock, Texas

There were at least four people watching her house.  One hanging from a
telephone pole, one in a car across the broad street from her house, a
third in the skimpy bushes in the alley behind her place, and, he
suspected, a fourth in one of the nearby houses.  The neighbor's RV, if
he had to make any guesses.

That would leave one, maybe two agents in her house.

Not too terribly bad odds.

Because they had an entirely different set of rules to live by than he
did.  They would take him alive at all costs.  That's what they were
supposed to do.  They were the "good" guys.  He chuckled, a raspy
sound.

He didn't have to live by those rules.  They were utterly expendable,
mere obstacles to his objective-Kelsey.  He thought about what he would
do to her.  He'd make her pay for the past three years, for not doing
as he needed of her three years ago.

He sighed heavily, almost lovingly.

He would have to wait, because right now those agents were in his way.
But, like waitresses or taxi drivers he would never see again, he
didn't need to worry about their favor.

He lifted the binoculars to his eyes.  He could see her house-her
ostentatious, Spanish-style hacienda-as if it were close enough to
reach out and touch the creamy stucco, grab hold of those succulent
plants and climb straight up to those barricaded second-story
windows.

He'd lived behind bars long enough to recognize the difference between
what kept people out and what held people in.  These bars were the
comfortable variety.  Easy.  A piece of cake.

He lowered the field glasses and leaned back.  A moan behind him caught
his attention.  He turned around and faced the woman tied up and gagged
on the flowery love seat.

"Aren't you glad you weren't married to me?"  he asked.  He laughed as
she hesitated before nodding.

Friday, November 12 4: 30 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas

The phone rang and Kelsey and John both froze.  She looked at him with
a sharp question in her fine gaze.  He nodded slowly and, with her,
crossed to the bar.  He activated the tracer and flipped the listening
switch before she lifted the wall receiver.

"Hello?"  she asked.  Her rich, sultry voice was at odds with her wide
eyes, the tense grip of her hand.  She might be tough, but she was also
frightened nearly out of her wits.

Her eyes flashed to John's as the masculine voire came through the
phone lines.

"You sound just fine, sweetheart.  Are you ready for me?  I'll be there
soon.  Very soon."

Winslow hung up with one of those dry chuckles, but not, John noted
with grim satisfaction, before the tracer had locked in on his
location.

Kelsey replaced the receiver and walked away from the bar, leaned
against the glass of the patio doors.  He wanted to tell her to get
back from the glass, to hide in the house somewhere.  But due to the
construction of the veranda, the wide overhang and the broad patio
itself, she was as protected there as she would be in the kitchen.  And
there was a man in the alley and one on the phone pole just a couple of
blocks down.

He punched in the Lubbock office number and quickly gave the
coordinates the tracer had logged.  He said he'd hold for the verbal
location and watched Kelsey closely while he did so.

She didn't look particularly frightened now, only thoughtful.  Her blue
eyes roamed the backyard, the broad expanse of trimmed grass, the
succulents lining the walls, the still-green honeysuckle vines draped
over the back end of the high adobe walls.  She almost appeared to be
considering what to plant in the spring, so quiet was her gaze.

He wanted to touch her, if nothing else, just to rest his hand on her
shoulder, convey his sympathy, his assurance that all would be well.
But he knew she didn't want his sympathy and he could scarcely assure
her of something he wasn't any too sure about himself.  And if he were
totally honest, if he touched her, he wasn't sure he could stop.

Her eyes lifted to the rich blue sky, a vast expanse of cloudless
beauty.  She smiled slightly and he wished he knew "shat she was
thinking.

"The call originated at the private airfield in Lubbock," q:q voice
said over the line

He ordered a report from the three men they'd placed at the small
airport.  It would be forthcoming, his contact said.

He hung up and didn't look at Kelsey as he advised her, "You were
right."  He told her where the call had come from.  She didn't move,
didn't seem to acknowledge his statement.

But after a moment, she asked, "Why don't I believe that?  "

John was nonplussed.  What could he say to that?  "Why not?"

She shook her head and looked back out the window.

John thought she wore the identical expression she'd had the morning of
Bill Winslow's trial for conspiracy to commit murder, the morning she'd
discovered her life was only worth a handful of years.

The phone rang again and he almost forgot to switch on the tracer.  He
picked up the receiver this time, and handed the listener to Kelsey.

It was Connie with the report that the agents at Lubbock airport had
called in.  Four planes had landed there that morning and early
afternoon.  All disembarking passengers and pilots had checked out.

"The call came from there," he said.  " " From one of the private
planes.  At least that's what we thought.  " " "Thought?"

"

" Cellular phone, " Kelsey said dully.

And it clicked into place.  The Secret Service was doing a lot of work
these days with cellular phones.  Because of the home-base requirement,
a cellular phone could be used anywhere, but it recorded only from the
point of origin.  In other words, Winslow had used the phone, but
certainly not necessarily from the Lubbock airport.  He didn't have to
be anywhere near the plane.

"How about the pilot?"

"They're taking him to the hospital now.  He's still alive, but
barely."

"And no one saw him?  Winslow?"

"He left the plane as the pilot, with the pilot's ID.  We didn't find
the pilot until later."

John didn't have to ask how much later.  After the phone call.  He
cursed himself for not having ordered that team to inspect each plane
before letting anyone go.  His brain wasn't functioning the way it
should, he thought.  He had too many other things on it, things that
had nothing to do with this case.  Had only to do with Kelsey.

There were good, solid reasons not to get involved with someone you
were covering, he thought grimly, reminding himself a little too
late.

"Will the pilot live?"  Kelsey asked quietly.

John relayed the question to Connie, who said, "He has a good chance,
the medics say.  He was still breathing, and no vitals were hit."

"

" Weapon?  "

"

" Knife.  "

John told her to call immediately with any new developments , then
added, " " Surely there's some way to get a fix on a C-type phone. Call
the Secret Service.  One of them might know some trick.  Let me know
the soonest.  " He hung up , and Kelsey did the same.

"I've gotta say this, Kelsey," he said grimly.

She only looked at him with that same dull expression.  He couldn't
read it, didn't think anyone would be able to.

"This is an operation now.  Pure and simple.  And we're going to treat
it like one."

"No more fun and games?"  she asked, the saucy look back in place.

He grinned, but said, "That's right.  Game time's over."

"What a pity," she drawled.  "And we were having such fun today."

She turned her back on him, missing his appreciative grin.  She walked
across the living dining room toward the stairs.  He called her name
softly and she stopped.

He said slowly, "As long as you know that nothing about qlast night was
a game to me."

Kelsey didn't wait for more, though she was sure that if he'd been able
to see her face, he would have known how direct a hit he'd made-a
flusher, or whatever boxers called that direct cut to the stomach, the
one that knocked every single bit of wind from the opponent.

How the hell was she supposed to think angrily, even objectively or
rationally, when he said things like that?  When he'd now driven it
home that what they had shared wasn't merely a distraction, something
that had taken his mind momentarily from the task at hand?

She wanted to yell back down at him that it hadn't been any game for
her, either, but that was coming too close to the truth, a truth she
didn't dare examine now.

Friday, November 12 8: IS p. m. , Lubbock, Texas

The man on the telephone pole wasn't hard to take out.  He responded
exactly as Bill had hoped he would to a curious neighbor's request for
information.  " " You been up on that pole off and on for a couple of
days now," he said, calling up to the agent.  He let a note of
suspicion creep into his voice.  " You want to tell me what's going on?
"

The man told him it was a problem with the long-distance phone lines.

He allowed suspicion to grow even greater.  "A problem that takes three
days and as many men to correct?"

"You know how these things can be," the man called down with a smile.

Bill didn't smile back.  "Well, how about showing me some ID, pal?  "

When the man tried waving him away, he told the guy he thought the
police just might be interested in a bunch of grown men hanging around
telephone poles with binoculars around their necks.

He stomped away, the very picture of indignation, right in through the
open back door of Kelsey's tied-up neighbor

And he did call the police.  And in typical right hand not letting the
left know what was going on, the police arrived in three units and
swarmed the "good" guys.

Bill laughed watching the exchange of badges, the searchlights strafing
the alleyways.

He turned to the woman bound with her own housecoat tie.  "My hallmark
has always been the KISS theory?  Do you know it?  "

She shook her head, tears in her eyes.

"Keep It Simple, Stupid.  Let me tell you, honey, it works every
time."

Friday, November 12 8:30p.  m. " Lubbock, Texas

John swore as he saw the commotion in the Street "qover 's blown," he
muttered aloud, although Kelsey couldn't possibly have heard him in the
next room.  Some do-gooder neighbor, he thought, then on the heels of
that condemnation came the chilling awareness that it could have been
Winslow who'd tipped the police, who had used all the resources at hand
to good-or bad-advantage.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought it might be Bill.  He
remembered the brief call from George, ttx poor guy on the telephone
pole.  "Some neighbor hasqing me," he'd said, "didn't believe I was
with the phone qiDompany.  Said he was calling the police."

Now John wondered which neighbor, which house.  "Kelsey?"  he called.
She'd know.  She'd be able to tell them which neighbor was likely to
get irate, which would have _called in the police.

She stepped behind him, as soft footed as any agent.  "Tell me about
your neighbors," he said.

"I told you the first day," she answered.

"Yeah, yeah.  But I mean those habit kind of details you were talking
about.  Who would have hassled George on the telephone pole, then
called the police in to investigate?"

Shefrowned.  "Mrs.  Petersham-"

"

" Male.  "

"Mr.  Anderson, across the Street I can't really picture him doing it,
but he's often suspicious of strangers."

"What's he look like?"

"

" Oh, tall, white haired.  Mustache.  He was a colonel in the

Korean War.  Limps.  "

John jerked up the telephone and swore again as it rang without
response.  George was probably down on the ground now, talking with the
police.  " " Who else?  " he asked.

"Well, Eloy Valencia.  He's one of the city councilmen.

He's friendly, but likes to know what's going on in the neighborhood. "
" " Looks?"

"Short-five six or so.  Round.  Black hair.  Wears thick glasses."

"Good," he said, jotting this down in the notebook he'd taken from her
highboy what seemed months ago.  "Who else?  "

"Gregory Adams.  But I think he's blind.  Diabetes.  His wife has to do
all the driving, everything."

"

" Old guy?  "

"Yes.  In his late seventies, early eighties, maybe."

"

" Okay.  Anyone else?  "

Extreme Jiqstice 201

"I don't know too many people on the next block," Kelsey said.  She
sounded apologetic.  "Just the people within my area.  We have a sort
of informal Neighborhood Watch."

"How about behind you?  Across the alley?"

"They call it widow's row," she said.  "All three of the women on that
side of the block are widows."

"Do they have any sons, or even brothers who might go outside to
investigate?  Someone hassled Gordon, and he was out in the alley. 
Down about four houses."

"I don't know about sons.  I've never really seen any men around them,
except their lawn boys.  Or maybe someone working on their roof."

"This could just be a case of Neighborhood Watch in action ," he said.
He pulled back the curtain to show her the activity in the Street
"We'reblown out of the water.  At first I thought it might be Winslow,
but if you have a Neighborhood

Watch program, somebody might have called in.  "

"It's Bill," she said.  Her voice was cold, emotionless.  She might
have been talking about the weather for all that she allowed inflection
to shade her tone.  Although, he thought, he'd never heard just that
note of iciness, of implacability coming from her before.  Anger, yes;
suspicion, fear.  And qassion, he'd heard that.  But not this dull
chilled quality.  q "Okay, leYs assume it was.  That means he's tagged
ev 'qone," he said.  He peered through the curtain again, this e
looking at the RV next door.  "Except our-damn."  q'The agent in the
Bilby's RV?  " she asked, as though q'd expected it.  'q " Yeah.  That
tears it.  " He dropped the curtain back into

"From here on out, no windows, no doors under any stances.  I don't
want you five feet from me, do you that?  Unless we hear something and
then I want you to qactly what I tell you.  No arguments, not even a
peep.

, " she said coldly.

He studied her for a moment, hating that icy note in her otherwise
sultry voice.  Her features were perfectly still, as though chiseled
from pure marble.  She was pale, and her lips were dry.  But she didn't
look frightened.  Only cold.  So very, very cold.

"And the idea is to catch him, not kill him."

"The idea is to survive," she contradicted.  " " The idea is for both
of us to survive, " he fired back.

"Both who?  You and I, or all three of us... you, me and Bill Winslow?
Not the coziest of trios."

He surprised her when he laughed.  " " You're right, there.  But we're
still going to do everything we can to keep you safe, and take him
alive.  "

"What if he doesn't want to play by your rules?"

John didn't answer her.  He couldn't.  If Bill Winslow was as hell-bent
as he'd proven, then all bets were off.  Protecting

Kelsey was the only objective.  The only priority.  Everything
else-including memories of her in his arms-was of no consequence.

And as he watched her leave the room, back straight, head regal, hips
swaying in rhythm to her precise footsteps, he suddenly realized it
wasn't a matter of protecting her life, it was a matter of preserving
it.  And preservation indicated a notion of future.

But which notion was that..  and what on earth was he supposed to do
about it now?

Chaqter 11

Kelsey managed to clear the doorway and step into the hall before her
icy facade melted.  She couldn't seem to halt the sudden hot tears in
her eyes, the shaking in her insides.

She was so very frightened, felt so very alone.

Hold me, she wanted to beg John, just hold me.  Tell me any lie, any
half-baked promise, just don't turn your back on me.  =-qhe hallway
seemed to stretch forever in front of her, blurred by her tears, made
longer by her complete lack of sustaining anger.  She made it to her
room by sheer will, but it was a willpower all too eroded, erased by
the hard lines on John's face, the distance in his voice.  How could
someone change that much?

Or was it she who had changed?

This confrontation with Bill Winslow was still all important It meant
her very life, but so much more rested on it now.  Before she had seen
him as an impenetrable barrier to ever having a sane and stable life.
Now that she knew what that life could mean, sanity and stability
didn't seem to matter.  Those qualities seemed unimportant.

She hadn't been living; she'd been existing.  More than ever, she
wanted this struggle with Bill Winslow over.  Because now, for the
first time, she'd had a taste of what life could really be like.  With
John.  He represented an altogether different perspective.  Afuture
perspective.

But he was rejecting it.  She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his
tone.

She'd loved one man wrongly, had suffered for it for thirteen years.
And now John had opened the door for her to live again, to love
again.

She told herself that this was impossible, she couldn't be wrong again.
She could love John Chandler.  Fate wouldn't be so unfair as to have
her fall in love with a man to whom the future was only a pipe dream, a
man to whom the present was the be-all and end-all of existence.  And a
man who could turn on and off the faucet of affection like anyone else
drew water.

Was she in love?

If she wasn't, this was hell.  It was hell, anyway.

She made it through her bedroom door, feeling the hot tears of
loneliness, of fear, coursing down her cheeks.  She was glad he hadn't
seen them.  Was afraid that if he had, he would only have turned away,
as he had this afternoon, as he had only moments before.

He'd said that he didn't know what to say to her about , last night; he
hadn't talked much then, either.  Now, today, without any words,
without his touch, she felt cast adrift.  He'd cut her off from her
anger, her driving need for vengeance , and left her where?  Out in the
dark somewhere, trapped in a world of hurt, a universe of unanswered
questions

Her knees buckled and she slumped to the floor, not even reaching the
bed.  She buried her face in her hands, trying to stem the flow of
anguish, having no success.  The tears burned, hot and scalding, coming
not from her eyes but from her heart.  When had she last cried, really
cried the tears that come from the soul, the depths of the heart, the
lowest point of despair?

Three years ago in a dreary apartment in downtown Lubbock.  Those tears
had been cleansing.  These were tears of longing, tears of abject
loneliness.  Why couldn't he just hold her?  Set aside the agent's
tough exterior, take her into his broad arms and hold her tightly, as a
man, a lover?  qqWhy?  " she sobbed aloud, aching for the feel of him,
crying for his loss.

John tried George again, hung up the phone in disgust.

It was anybody's game now.  He heard a muffled sound from the hallway,
as if Kelsey had stumbled and braced a hand against the wall for
support.  He didn't hear it repeated and started to make another call
when he heard another sound, a dull thud from her bedroom.

Curious, feeling the adrenaline course through him in sudden fear, he
held his hand over the butt of his gun and went down the short hallway.
He stopped in the doorway, feeling as though someone had shot him.

Kelsey was on her knees, body bent forward, her face in her hands,
crying.  Crying as if her very soul were torn apart qdnot all the
king's horses, nor any of the Bureau's men, q. :qld put it together
again. q'Why?  " he heard her sob.

He dropped his hand from the gun, stood there indeciqqy for what seemed
a century, but was less than a second Then he stepped forward, dropped
beside her and q. Swept her into his arms.  Nothing on the face of the
earth q:.  "could have stopped him.  Not the job, not duty, not even a:
bullet from Bill Winslow.

He pulled her roughly against his chest, holding her qtaking form with
both arms, his hands pressing her to him.  q resisted, but it was no
more resistance than a child who had been hurt would pull away from a
kind touch, a gentle voice.  She buried her head against him, sobbing
harder.

He felt as if every tear was searing him, burning him, melting some
essential part of him.  She had been so cold only moments before.
Hiding this from him, he thought now, and knew he was right.

"Ah, Kelsey..."  he murmured against her silky hair.  "Don't cry...
please don't cry."

If anything, she cried harder.

He did the only thing he knew how to do-envelop her , with his legs,
his arms, the emotions he couldn t name, and rock her slightly.  Over
and over he murmured her name and simply held her, aching for her, some
part of him crying with her, giving her time, letting her sob it out.

The tears didn't come strictly from fear.  He knew that as well as he
knew anything.  They had come from him.  He'd caused them.  From his
keeping her at a distance to his barking orders at her as though she
were some incompetent flunky.  Couldn't she see how frightened he was
for her?  This wasn't just a case.  It was her life.  He'd already
screwed up by getting involved.  Anything he did now, any mistake he
made in the next few days, possibly hours, could mean that Kelsey
wouldn't be around to see that tomorrow she seemed to want.  For her
sake, he'd had to shut her out.

But had he really needed to?  He questioned it now, holding her, and
wondered if that shutting out had as much to do with his fear of
dealing squarely with the emotions she sparked in him as his fear of
having something happen to her.

It was both, he decided, and knew that the two seemingly different
viewpoints had fused into one jumbled mass that could only spell
disaster.

"P-promise me," she whispered raggedly.

He murmured her name, making it a promise in and of itself.

"Promise me..."  she said again, louder this time.  Clearer.

q'What do you want me to promise?  " he asked.  His heart qemed to stop
beating while he waited for her answer.  q'I don't know," she said on a
sob.  "Just something.  Anything.  Don't leave me out here in the dark,
wondering.  Hoping you'll give me some sign that last night mattered.
That you won't turn your back on me.  Tell me something important,
something I can hold on to when this terrible, terrible fear sweeps in
and makes me want to scream, makes me crazy with the waiting.  Just
hold me.  Promise me."

John felt she had plunged a knife into him.  His arms tightened around
her convulsively.  He had to look up, blinking furiously against the
sudden sting in his own eyes.  Didn't she know she was asking for
everything?  Didn't she know she was breaking his heart?  That she was
the one making him crazy?

"I'm here, Kelsey.  I'm here," he said.  And though she didn't ask, he
could almost taste her next question.  But for how long?  He couldn't
answer, not her, not himself.

And so he merely held her, rocked her, waited for her tears to subside,
feeling as if every tear belonged to him, had his name indelibly etched
in the salty water.

He thought about her promise, her poignant demand for him to keep the
shadows at bay, to haul her in from the cold he'd placed her in with
his distance.  And he thought about qervow to kill Bill Winslow, to end
his torment once and for

And for a long, hard moment, he thought of promising lfer this, to do
the job for her.  To take the law in his own qands, to calmly, coldly,
kill her ex-husband.  Everything in him, all he had fought for these
twenty-odd years, struggled against this notion, screamed a denial, but
he quelled the rage by reminding himself this was Kelsey he was
thinkqng about, it was Kelsey.  qq But taking the law into his own
hands, locking her safely lo a closet while he went downstairs, found a
good solid qporner, and sat waiting for Bill Winslow with the one
thought of killing him was the height of wrong.  If he did that, he
couldn't possibly ever pretend he was doing it out of love for Kelsey,
or out of some misguided penance for having hurt or abandoned her in
the past.  He would be doing it in payment for her tears, in atonement
for every deed Winslow had done to her, to others.  He would be killing
him because he hated him, not because his job demanded that he do so.

And he wouldn't be the cold professional, he would be the hot-blooded
avenger of this woman he cared too deeply for.  He would be the lover
who had roused her passion but stolen her anger, the man who wanted her
to remember nothing but him, who would gladly, almost joyfully, kill
the sordid reminder of her terrible past.

It would be wrong, he knew, but it felt so very right.

Friday, November l2 9:20p.  m. " Lubbock, Texas

He couldn't be sure which room she was hiding in.  The house was lit up
like a Fourth of July party in full swing, even if all the curtains
were drawn.

The little widow with the pink fuzzy housecoat had been only too happy
to tell him the layout of Kelsey's house.  She'd only been in it a few
times, she'd stammered, but had seemed to remember it with some detail.
If he went in the back door, the kitchen was to the right, open to the
dining room right in front of him, the living room to his left.  An
exercise room was beyond that, where the Careys used to have their
formal living area.  Upstairs there were three bedrooms , one
overlooking the front side of the house, the master on the east and a
guest room overlooking the back of the house.  Even with his help, she
couldn't seem to remember how many bathrooms or closets there were on
either of the floors.

She had babbled on about Mexican tile and plants, and a thousand
meaningless nothings, until he gave her back her dishrag.  It was also
pink.  "I've always had an eye for detail ," he told her, patting her
wet cheek.

There was no reason to have let her live, he thought now as he slipped
from the shadows at the side wall to the shadows of Kelsey's patio. But
he hated obvious patterns.  Later , when it didn't matter anymore,
people would wonder why he'd let the old woman live.

He liked that.

He smiled.  Right now, he liked just about everything.

Chapter 12

Friday, November 12 10: 00 p. m. , Lubbock, Texas

John held Kelsey until his knees ached, until his back screamed for
attention, and continued to hold her even then.  She had stopped
crying, had been silent for some time now.  He half wondered if she was
asleep.

She rid him of this question with her sigh and next words.  "

" I'm sorry.  "

"Don't apologize," he said.  "I'm the one who made you cry."

"Not you.  Not really.  It's just everything.  I felt like the whole
world had come crashing down on me, and I didn't know where to turn."

"You can always turn to me," he said.  His voice seemed to catch in his
throat, like a last-ditch effort to hold in a promise.

She didn't say anything for a long while and he wondered if she was
mulling over his words or simply rejecting them.

"What are we going to do?"  she asked.  Her voice was as rich as ever,
yet sounded girlish in an odd way.

He didn't know if she was asking him about whatever strange
relationship they had suddenly created, or if she was seeking some
information about Bill Winslow.

Either way, there was nothing he could answer with, so he said instead,
"You're going to wash your face.  Then we're going to go downstairs and
I'm going to make us some coffee" He didn't add what he was thinking,
that it was likely to be the longest night of their lives.  " "
Practical to the end?  "

He smiled even as he frowned.  She was something.  How many other women
could quip with him after crying as though there were no tomorrow.. and
knowing that might well be true.

"Kelsey..."

She stirred in his arms, but he wouldn't let her go, wouldn't let her
pull away enough to look at him.  Not until he said what he had to
say.

"Last night-" She stiffened, and he held her even tighter, willing her
to let him finish, forcing himself to conIinue'It meant something to
me, too," he said.

Somehow it didn't seem enough, didn't seem to cover a qrter of the
ground he needed to talk about, needed to let q' know.  But he couldn't
say more.  This was far more than qrqx'd ever told anyone before.

She relaxed a little but didn't say anything.  q "Make love to me, "
she said.

He closed his eyes in sharp pain.  God, didn't she know fhow much he
wanted her?  " " Kelsey, the bad guys are com :qg;" he said raggedly,
trying desperately to cling to sanity.  t; the have to circle the
wagons.  We can't indulge "

"Yes, we can," she interrupted.  "Indulge me."  And behe could stop
her-not that he fought her much-she ed forward, pressing her lips to
his.

214 Extreme Justice qtreme Justcce 215

Yep, one in a million.  In a billion.  So why was it so hard to
articulate what he was feeling?  Why couldn't he even admit it to
himself?  He thought about it and smiled wryly.  Leave it to Kelsey to
cut through any gray areas, continually on the search for the
definitive black-and-white.

"If I can," he said.

"You'd better promise," she said harshly, though again, she didn't say
what she wanted him to promise.

But he knew.

"Yeah," he said, but even to himself, he sounded doubtful

Kelsey washed the tearstains from her face with a washcloth that
smelled like John.  She didn't feel foolish for her tears, her
emotional outburst.  She should have, she thought, but couldn't seem to
feel other than relieved.  She'd cried the tears that needed to be
shed, uttered the words that needed speaking.  And as he had
twenty-four hours earlier, he'd let his touch speak for him, his hands
convey the message his voice seemed unwilling to impart.

And he'd given her something new to think about, to worry about. Always
before when she'd considered this confrontation with Bill, she'd viewed
it in terms of only her and Bill.  John had added a third
element-himself.  She knew from his few words, his fierce hold of her,
that he would rather die than see her hurt.  If there was the remotest
chance of Bill getting through, John would go down rather than let him
get to her.

Could she live with that?  Could she wake up every morning for the rest
of her life knowing that her anger, her insistence that they stay put,
had caused John Chandler's death?

No.  It was that simple.  She couldn't possibly begin to face that.  It
would be the death of everything she knew to be good, to be honest.  If
he died because of her, she might as well be dead, too, for life
wouldn't hold anything for her.

She wondered how long she'd been dodging this terrible concept and knew
it had been at least since their kiss that first morning, possibly
before then.  And still she had pushed for the confrontation, the
shoot-out, the final showdown.

Now it was too late to back out.  Too late to skip down the hallway and
announce, oops, she'd been a little crazy, that in her obsession with
Bill, she'd forgotten about John, that she'd put him on the back burner
of her mind, had ignored the dangers to him if not to herself.  It was
also too late to say she was sorry she'd forced the issue, demanded to
stay put for a no-holds-barred old-fashioned gunfight.

And, in the wake of his admission, too late to admit that she loved
him.  Because now, with the danger to him so very clear in her mind,
her awareness of what his life meant to her, she knew that it was true.
She did love John Chandler.  With everything she had.

She tossed the washcloth into the sink, smiling a little as it
collapsed into a loose ball.  This was hardly the time to worry about
being tidy.  She left the bathroom and rejoined John in her bedroom.

He looked distant, but smiled at her nonetheless.  It was a shy grin,
the kind a little boy might proffer a new kid on the block.  Hesitant,
reserved, yet strangely open, unqey went down the stairs together, and
she felt almost no as he insisted on going first, his gun drawn and at
the q. The downstairs was quiet, still and shrouded in

; checked all the rooms-it didn't take long as only the ise room and
the kitchen were even marginally sepa -and signaled her to come down.
She did so with a though she didn't meet his eyes.  e didn't want him
to read her newfound fears.  Someletting him see that, letting him read
her love for him, afraid of telling him that she thought they might
fail in attempt to stay alive.

"Are you going to call for backup?"  she asked.

"Don't have to," he said.  Hejerked his head toward the front door.
"For all that their cover is blown, they're all still there, and
keeping twice as close an eye on the place."  She felt immeasurably
relieved.  Bill might have called the police-assuming it had been him
and not some other helpful neighbor-he might have exposed the hiding
places of the FBI, but he hadn't managed to chase them away.

She wished now, fervently, that one of them would spot him, would
arrest him before he ever so much as saw her.  John was right, he was
up on murder one now.  He wouldn't just get a slap on the wrist for
that, would he?

Knowing the justice system as she bitterly did, she was half-afraid he
would.  Which meant that the nightmare would start all over again in a
few years.  But at least, that way, she would be sure that John would
be alive to tell about it.

That was, until his next assignment.  Only, what did that matter?  She
wouldn't be with him, then, either.

The phone, their harbinger of nothing but bad news, pealed, making both
of them jump.  As if they had rehearsed their routine, Kelsey went for
the wall receiver as John handled the tracer.  At his signal, she
lifted it.

The person on the other end didn't wait for Kelsey's greeting.  "You've
got to get out of there right now!"  a woman's nearly hysterical voice
quavered in her ear.

Kelsey met John's eyes in quick question.  He waved at her to
continue.

"Who is this?"

"Jenny Stedman, but that doesn't matter!  You've got to get out of that
house.  He knows you're there.  He's been watching your place!  Oh,
God, honey, he's planning to kill you.  Now, you listen to me, girl,
and you get right out of there."

"Mrs.  Stedman?"  Kelsey pointed out the back patio doors for John's
benefit.  "are you all right?"  She emphaJustice 2l 7

';qed the pronoun so the woman wouldn't think Kelsey was questioning
her sanity.  q'I've lived through two husbands, honey.  I ain't going
yet.  But he's a lunatic, and he's at your place now.  "

"I'm fine, Mrs.  Stedman," Kelsey said.  It was all she could think to
say.  She didn't know if Bill was standing beside frail Mrs.  Stedman
holding a weapon on her, or if the older woman had managed to get free
of him somehow.

John nodded.  He depressed a switch Kelsey hadn't even imown about, and
patched through a call to the bureau.  qqGet someone over to-?  " He
shot Kelsey a sharply questioning look.  She mouthed the answer.  " To
1412 L,as Mesas

Drive.  No, send one we've already got here.  And tell him to go in
carefully, our boy may be inside.  "

"Mrs.  Stedman?"  Kelsey asked.  "John's sending someone over to take
care of you ."  'qDon'tworry about that," the woman said.  " Just you
mind and get clear of that place.  Pronto!  Oh, Lord, what :nqq .
hhere's someone banging on my door saying he's from the FBI.  "

"Tell her to have the agent identify himself," John said.  qlqlsey did
as he commanded, thinking he couldn't get any For all he knew, he was
sending an agent in to his death.

" q;q He sa s his name is George Adams, Mrs.  Stedman said qIohn ran a
hand through his hair.  He grabbed the phone qm Kelsey.  " Is there
anyone else with you?  " he barked.  '" No.  That man, the one that's
after Kelsey, left here qout two hours ago.  " 'qCan you walk, ma'am?"
qqYes, I can.  As soon as I untie my legs.  Twit tied me up tlh my own
housecoat cord.  Made me eat my dirty dish6 all afternoon.  "

John grimaced, though Kelsey half wondered if he wasn't trying to hide
a nervous grin.  "Let George in, ma'am.  He'll take care of you ."

" " Fine by me.  But when this is all over, whatever it is that's going
on, I want somebody to tell me how it is that law abiding citizens can
get trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey right in their own "'y rooms.
I'm coming.  I'm coming.  Don't knock the door down."

She hung up without a farewell.  John turned to Kelsey, no longer
bothering to hide his grin.  "I think Winslow was lucky with that lady.
She sounds like she could have had him for breakfast ."

Kelsey smiled wanly.  She couldn't imagine anyone harming

Mrs.  Stedman.  She was eighty-three years old, maybe five-two or
-three and as thin as the proverbial reed.  She was half amazed her
elderly neighbor hadn't died of a heart attack during the assault.

So many people hurt, she thought.  Because of her.  Because of Bill's
warped notion of revenge, because of his single-minded desire to murder
her.

As if he were reading her mind, John reached out and touched her
shoulder, a gentle nudge.  "It's not your fault," he said.  "Winslow's
a lunatic.  Even our Mrs.  Stedman realized it.  You heard her.  And
she doesn't blame you, does she?  "

"She should," Kelsey said.

"If you follow that line of logic," he said with a twisted smile, "it
would be a grandparent's fault when a grandchild robs a store, a
storekeeper's fault when an employee beats his wife.  Like you told me,
anyone that Winslow has hurt has only been in his way.  You can be
thankful he didn't kill Mrs.  Stedman."

The phone rang again and they did their little routine, though Kelsey
thought by now it more a matter of show than for any expectation of
results.

George, here.  Mrs.  Stedman's okay.  A little shook up.

I'm calling for an ambulance.  " There was a pause.  " The qartment
will pick up the tab, won't they?  See, ma'am, I told you they would. "
He hung up, the sound of Mrs.  Stedman 's voice overriding his
farewell.

Kelsey hung up the phone slowly.  "How long did she say that Bill had
been gone from her house?  "

John frowned heavily.  "Two hours."

She felt fate scratching at her mind.  She'd wished for a showdown,
demanded one.  The adage of being careful what you wished for lest it
come true, seemed all too eerily appropriate right now.

"Then where is he?"  she asked.

Friday, November 12 10:30p.  m. " Lubbock, Texas

He could have told them if they had taken a good look right from that
kitchen window.  He was cold, he was hungry and he was furious.

He should have killed the old lady, after all.  Who would have thought
someone who didn't look as though she could bend over and put on her
own shoes could have managed to get untied and call Kelsey, and thus,
the FBI?

He should have been in the house a long time ago.  But that damned
Chandler had rigged every window, every

It wasn't really that big of a problem, he decided.  Exqne obstacles
only required extreme thought.  And he was genius.  He could do
anything.  And he knew one thing the old lady had forgotten to tell
elsey's FBI boyfriend.  She'd given him, after only a coule of polite
requests, her husband's Colt .  45, the great levIer He would enjoy
seeing the look on Kelsey's face when 2used it on lover boy.

220 Extreme Justice , qtreme Justice 221

He relaxed.  He wasn't cold anymore.  And his hunger wasn't for food.

The game was about to go into high gear.  It would be fun.

Because he was free.

Extremely free.

Saturday, November 13 2: 00 a. m. , Lubbock, Texas

"If I have one more cup of coffee, I'll never be able to hold a gun
steady," Kelsey said.  She held out her hand for him to see.  It wasn't
trembling in the slightest.

John shot her a hard look.  "As far as I'm concerned, you won't be
using that gun of yours."

"Tell me that when Winslow bursts in," she countered.

He grinned wearily.  "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you
were Bureau trained."

"When a person's scared enough, they can find the right places to learn
a few tricks," she said.

He chuckled.  What was it about her that made him want to smile even as
she turned him upside down with anger and inside out with longing?

He felt they'd been waiting a lifetime for some kind of movement from
Winslow.  Maybe the show of force outside earlier hadn't been Winslow's
idea, maybe all that firepower had chased him away.  The notion was
dual edged, making him wish that were the case, and hope like hell it
wasn't.  The first because he was bone tired and would give a month's
salary to stretch out on Kelsey's bed, perhaps just tuck her head on
his shoulder and sleep for at least a week.  The latter because if they
didn't catch Winslow now, he'd just keep coming.  And keep coming until
he eventually got Kelsey.

That notion sobered him, woke him fully.  If Winslow ever got his hands
on Kelsey, she wouldn't stand a prayer.  She might be all but
professionally trained, but no amount of training in the world could
stand up to a psychopath.  He'd attended too many
death-in-the-line-of-duty ceremonies not to know this was true.

If he didn't take care of Winslow, if the man got through, who would
have a ceremony for Kelsey?  Not the police.  Not the FBI.  She had no
parents, no relatives.  There would be no family to receive posthumous
medals, a folded American flag, a rose to press in a family Bible.  And
if Winslow had gotten past him, there would be no John Chandler there,
either, dressed in black, heart heavy with failed intention qqWhat'll
you do when this is all over?  " he asked her.  Let it be big, he
prayed silently.  Let her dreams be so sweeping, so all-encompassing,
that he would be able to feel the reality of them, see them as she
could.

Her blue eyes met his swiftly, assessingly, he thought.  Not sizing him
up, but rather to see if he was really interested.  He qodded.

"I thought about that this afternoon.  Or was it yesterday ?  It seems
a lifetime ago, somehow.  Anyway, I realized q(hadn't ever really
thought beyond today.  Beyond a confrontation with Bill, I mean." q
That struck him as inexpressibly sad.  He wondered how other people
were out in the world that very minute, ds on the past, hearts on hold,
just waiting for some " of resolution to their lives.  He asked gently,
" And

'and now I'm going to go get some more coffee, " she q, averting her
gaze, pushing to her feet.  She stretched ply, reaching for the
ceiling, arching backward, strain forward John swallowed heavily.  Was
she doing that on q rose, also, stopping her, not from going
downstairs, from driving him insane.  She turned to face him, her
qmeeting his.  He could almost feel the electric current that sprang
between them, ran like a spark from her arm through his hand and up.

There was so very much he wanted to tell her.  So much he couldn't say.
Didn't even know how to begin to say.

Her lips parted.

Without conscious volition, John pulled her into him, crushing her to
his chest, molding her to his body.  God, what was it about her that
made him forget everything?

"This shouldn't be happening," she taunted, a saucy smile on her
lips.

He hushed her in the oldest way known to man, by kissing her.  His
groan seemed to vibrate through every part of him, his chest, his legs,
his hands.  How could he even contemplate letting her go?  He couldn't,
and knew it.  He wanted to drown in her scent, die at her touch.

She buckled in his arms, moaning softly, clinging to him as if he were
the only sinecure in an otherwise topsy-turvy world.  He knew the
feeling.  What was he to do with her?  His life seemed to stretch
before him, an endless stream of packed suitcases and other
assignments.  A lonely apartment on a beach somewhere, some unspecified
time after retirement, a television on, a half-empty beer in his limp,
bored hands.

A revulsion shuddered through him.  He couldn't taste this, then go
back to the long nights of nothing and no one.  Worse, he would rather
have no one than be without this.

He had to touch her, make certain she was real, that she was in his
arms again, where he'd thought she would never be, could never be.  Her
fingers teased his hair, stroked his face, touched him not as a friend,
not just as a lover.  As a partner, a mate.

He heard a faint beep that stopped almost as soon as he raised his
head.  It was far too short to be one of the alarms.  He was still for
a moment, listening, but heard no other sound.  It must have come from
outside somewhere, he thought.

"You're going to give me a complex," she said, smiling at him, telling
him otherwise with her candid gaze.  "First yq, then no, then yes
again.  What's a girl to think?"

He showed her, grinding her to him.  He wanted to take her right then
and there and damn all consequences.  But he couldn't.  Her entire
safety, her life was literally in his hands.

With an almost angry thrust, he shoved her away from him, held her at
arm's length.  "I can't think when you touch me," he said, knowing he
was being unfair, knowing he'd Started it but irrationally angry with
her for so underminpig his sense of duty, his complete awareness that
all that qtood between her and certain death was one very tired FBI
agent who wanted her more than life itself.

She drew a deep breath.  "There are lots of ways to hide , John," she
said.

"What does that mean?"  Though he thought he knew.

"It means you care just as much as I do.  But you're not about to let
me know it."

When he didn't say anything, only looked at her with agony and
confusion filtering his brown eyes, she turned and left the room
without saying anything else.  What was there

She had all but laid it on the line She hadn't thought beq ond today.
Today was nearly over.  She wanted him to give a future, hand it to her
on a proverbial platter.  She had q::given him the lead-in and he had
remained silent.

She knew he cared.  No one could look at another human qqbaag the way
he looked at her and not care down to his very qqq.  qd she knew that
he was utterly confounded by the qotions she sparked in him.

That was only fair, she thought as she stomped down the ll.  She cared,
too.  Too much.  And too fruitlessly.  Well, q 'd be damned if she'd
stand around waiting for him to tell how swiftly he'd leave when the
bell rang on this asment If the bell rang.

She had already started down the steps, so intent on her march she
hadn't heard him come up behind her.  He grabbed her arm, half whirling
her around.  She nearly lost her footing and rounded on him angrily.

"Let me go!"

"Damn it, I told you not to get outside of five feet from me. Remember?
 "

"You're the one who pushed me away, remember?"

"Not five feet!"

She couldn't help it.  She chuckled.

He didn't so much as crack a smile, but his grip relaxed a little on
her arm.  "Okay.  You win.  But please, stay where I can cover you: '

"Anytime," she quipped, lowering her voice almost a full octave.

John groaned, and his reluctant smile surfaced.  "You're a menace," he
said.

"As long as the FBI knows about it..."  she said.

"It's in my report," he shot back.

"Oh, I think it's probably in more than that.  I remember you saying
something about me getting in," she answered slowly.  Meaningfully.  No
longer joking at all.

His eyes softened and he stepped down on the stair next to hers.  The
broad stairwell had never seemed so narrow before.  She could feel the
press of the curved stucco wall against her back, wanted to lean
against it, letting its cool plaster absorb her sudden heat.

"Oh, you got in, all right.  But I think I got in, too."

She opened her mouth and closed it again.  His face was so close to
hers she could have leaned forward a single notch and kissed him.  She
didn't.  She only waited, staring at him half in anger, half in
sorrow-filled hunger.

"Now let's get some damned coffee," he growled.

Neither one of them saw the shadow at the base of the stairs.

Chapter 13

,elsey shook her arm free of John's hand and passed rapidly down the
remaining stairs.  She sailed through the qrkened dining area and on
into the kitchen, trying to think some witty remark, something that
would chase the cons ion from his eyes, wipe the tension from his
mouth.  Unfortunately, there was nothing to say.  Not without nply
asking him for a future he was unprepared to offer, Euture she couldn't
even begin to sketch out for herself, let ottehim.  And not without
knowing that it was a moot test ion anyway, considering the not
inconsiderable cirhe reached for the glass coffeepot, then set it down
n, and smiled-evilly, she knew-and reached for the net instead.  She
pulled out a bag of rice cakes, the drifonlest tasting things she could
think of, and turned to ; holding them up.  Want one?  " she asked.  fe
frowned, stepped into the doorway of the kitchen, half tqd half out of
the light, and looked down at what she held.  A slow, almost rueful
grin curved his lips.  He met her gaze and shook his head.  She found
she'd been waiting for just that smile, just that look of reluctant
humor.

Surely someone who could match her humor, could touch her soul, make
her heart pound in ways it never had before, surely that someone should
be part of her life, her love?  Why hadn't she ever seen her life as
empty before?  Was it simply that he filled it so completely?

His shadow bounced on the wall behind him, spilled onto the stairs. She
wanted to keep looking at John, but the shadow's erratic behavior
claimed her attention.

And she knew without fully knowing.  Her instincts screamed every
warning that has ever been issued to a prey in the sights of the
hawk.

Bill was there.  He was in her house!

Without thinking, knowing only that the shadow danced behind John, that
his very life depended on her next action , her alerting him to the
danger, she simply acted.  She threw the rice cakes at John with all
her might.

As if in a dream, she saw his smile fade to a shocked question and saw
him duck to avoid the flying plastic bag.  His lips curved to say
something, but whatever it might have been was drowned out by the
deafening explosion of a handgun.

A sharp spasm of pain crossed his face as he dropped to the floor.  The
pain that had caused that look was magnified a hundred times in her
heart.  Not now, she screamed silently.  Not now !  Not when she had
just discovered that life could have meaning, that futures could exist,
that there was more to life than subsistence, more to living than
survival.

Not dead, she thought frantically, dropping to her stomach and crawling
toward him.  She had pulled her gun on instinct, she found, but it was
in her way now, impeding her progress to John.  She didn't even think
of using the weapon on the dancing shadow; she had only one objective:
making certain John was alive.

, qtreme Justice 227

"Well, well," a too-familiar voice said from the dining room.

Bill crossed the line of shadows and moved into the light.  He smiled
down at John first, then at her.  He held a Colt .  45 in his hands and
it was trained on John.

He looked different, she thought wildly, then realized that, like her,
he'd changed his hair color.  Unlike her, she thought giddily, he'd
killed his beautician.  She had chosen q black, a dark, strong color.
He'd selected a wheaten blond.  It rested oddly with his darkish
features, lending him a tan he didn't possess-couldn't from his years
in prison-and a Nordic quality she'd never seen in him before.

His smile was the same, but she could detect the ragged edges of his
recent trek across the country.  The fine veneer he'd always kept so
polished, so perfectly in place, had eroded, perhaps in the past three
years, more likely in the past three days.  He was like a reproduction
of an antique ,=qat someone had left too long in the weather.  You
could tell now that it wasn't priceless, could see the cracks in the
wq, the stress at the joints.  " All the lies were exposed now, she
thought.  Every last one qq:qqf them.

And not one of them mattered a whit.  Only John mat Time seemed to fold
in on itself, freezing this mot ,a stop frame in the continuum.  It was
his life flashing q ore her eyes, not her own.  She could see him as
she had first time, the quiet, observant FBI agent who had met _ eyes
with sympathy as he'd told her that her husband hired someone to kill
her.  She saw him as he read the qspaper accounts of her death, his
face pinched and that le muscle in his jaw pulsing with suppressed
emotion.  felt his first touch, that moment when comfort had _ orphosed
to desire.  She could smell his tangy after , his particular heady male
scent.  And she rememall the times she'd snapped at him, yelled at him,
trying to prove to him that she was tough, could handle anything thrown
her way.

She wanted to tell him now, make him understand, that she couldn't
handle this.  She couldn't handle his being hurt, couldn't possibly
handle his death.  Especially as it was a direct result of her
recalcitrance, her need for ending Bill's threat over her.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and was horrified to discover she
could smell the sharp, coppery scent of blood.

"John?"  she asked, never taking her eyes from Bill.

"I'm all right," he muttered.  A relief such as none she'd ever known
washed through her, making her almost sick with gratitude.

"Thanks to your warped sense of humor," he muttered.

Here they were, in the single most dangerous spot of their lives, and
he was cracking jokes?  The worst thing about it was that she wanted to
smile.  She wanted to do more than that.  She wanted to laugh, cry,
sing.  Dance.  John was alive!

She actually felt her lips curve into a slight smile.  Was that what he
was trying to tell her?  Take heart, I'm all right.  You're alive.  We
still have a chance.  A slim one, but a chance.

She slowly pushed to a sitting position, almost surprised to find she
still had her .  38 in her hand.  For all the good it would do her now.
She was careful not to look at Bill, not to rile him, not to do
anything that might make him fire that gun again.  John, she noticed
with admiration-and then sharp apprehension; was he really all right?
Had he been hit, in the back?  -stayed where he was.

She wasn't afraid anymore, and yet was more scared than she'd ever been
in her life.  She wasn't afraid of Bill.  He wasn't going to simply
shoot her and call it quits.  He'd gone too far, too terribly far, to
end it so quickly now.  His journal , his entire history, spoke to his
need to torment.  He would want to play with her a while, draw every
nuance of terror from her.

But she was afraid for John.  He would represent an obstacle , just
something in the way.  Like the medical supplies salesman, the doctor,
the beautician, even the pilot and Mrs.

Stedman.  She tried taking heart from the fact that he hadn't killed
any of the agents outside, merely called the police on t#q, but then
she couldn't even do that because she wasn't , certain this was true.

And even if it was, there was no guarantee he wouldn't kill

John just for the pleasure of it.  The power of it.

The light glinted off the Colt in Bill's hand.  It seemed to eqrilce
her between the eyes, registering in her mind with myriad conflicting
thoughts.  One, he held the gun like an * smateur.  He may have killed,
but he wasn't a weapons exi pert.  'two, now that the moment of
confrontation was finally at hand, now that he was standing over her,
his gun q; trained on John, she found she didn't want a showdown.

She still wanted Bill out of her life once and for all, but ':qtow she
wanted-needed-that future she'd never cont em "" pjated before.  And
with John.

Sq could almost imagine what John would say if she said qher thoughts
out loud.  "Your timing definitely needs some qqqork, Kelsey.  , " She
had the despairing thought that now, through her actions, she was about
to lose everything she had only ed could exist.  leaned back against
the refrigerator.  John still hadn't How badly was he wounded?  The
scent of blood all pervasive.  Did that mean it was a mortal wound?  _
God, was he lying there not five feet from her, dying?  ebit her lip to
keep a moan trapped inside.  She knew than to show any degree of
emotion in front of Bill.  qhad learned that lesson the hard way; she'd
lived with

, in't get relaxed, Kelse Bill said.  He chuckled.  The sent shivers
down her spine.  "The game is just get ting fun.  I'll tell you what,
why don't both of you stand up.  You, too, lover boy.  "

Kelsey almost sobbed with relief as she saw John push to his feet.  He
was wounded, his arm clung to his side, and a large, dark stain already
fanned out from his shoulder.  But it was high in the shoulder, away,
far enough away from his chest.  He would live.  If he had medical
attention fairly soon, that was.

Her imagination had painted an amazingly vivid picture of that same
stain in an alternate location.  He rose slowly and stood facing her,
an intense message of some kind in his eyes.  Despairingly, she
couldn't fathom his meaning.

"Okay, now, turn around.  Not you, Kelsey, sweetheart.  Just lover
boy."

John turned around, but not before sending another urgent message to
her.  God, what did he want her to do?  Bill had a gun trained on him,
for pity's sake.  Don't try to do anything, she silently cautioned.
You're already hurt, please, please don't be a hero.

She knew what she had to do.  She'd have to draw Bill's attention away
from John.  She cleared her too dry throat.  " " So" was all she
managed to get out.  What could she say to him?  How was prison?  Still
mad at me?

She wanted to giggle, and wondered briefly if the fear for John, the
fear of Bill, hadn't made her a few sandwiches shy of a picnic.  She
ground her teeth together and held he breath to keep from chuckling.
She was hysterical, that was it.  That's all it was.  Unfortunately, it
didn't help her stop thinking of possible things to say to Bill.

One of those questions finally sobered her completely: Still want to
carve me up into little pieces and feed meta whatever dogs you can
find?  " " Is that all you have to say to me after all this time?  Kelq
sey.  Sweetheart.  I'm disappointed.  I have to tell you the thought of
hearing you screaming, begging for your life haq helped me fill many a
long night in prison.  A place, I miglq add, that I didn't care for,
didn't want to go to and never would have if you had been a good girl.
"

"And died like you wanted me to?"  she asked.  He would never know how
terrified she was of him.  She was strong now, yes, and even tough, but
this was the man who had done so many horrible things to her that she
had finally reached that point in her psyche where she had actually
believed she'd deserved them.  That there was something wrong qvith
her.

She wasn't his victim any longer.  But that knowledge qdn't do anything
to alleviate the fear of him.  All she could hope to do was stall him.
Stall the inevitable.  Still, if she could salvage even a few minutes,
those few minutes were life, and life was the most precious thing to
her now.  Because of John.

Bill looked her up and down, insultingly, leeringly.  He eyed her with
such a combination of longing, lust and conql long gone haywire that
she shrank back against the re "qqfrigerator instinctively.

She saw the quick flash of evil pleasure leap in his eyes.  qqis was
what he wanted, she thought.  He wanted her qq, trembling.  Would it
buy her time, buy John time, if qqe gave him what he so obviously
craved?  Iq wouldn't be hard to convince him, it wouldn't take a of
acting on her part.  She was frightened to death.

qhn couldn't believe that this moment had finally art and had gone so
dreadfully wrong.  Just a moment er, watching Kelsey's saucy grin as
she held out those rioe things, he'd seen a glimpse of a proxy future,
qthing different than that dreary beach-and-beer apartt with the TV on
in the background.  tr a single shimmering moment, caught up in her
smile, ed by her wholly honest statement upstairs-There are qways to
hide, John and her other comment, Yocc got -he'd seen another life
unfold.  A life with Kelsey.  A

life filled with laughter, passion and joy.  A life that could hold the
kind of meaning he'd never dared even dream about.  A life that
actually embodied the essence of the word, a life that lent truth to
words such as love, loyalty, faith.  Trust.

He wished now that he hadn't hidden, wished he had given her those
words, had let them reel out of that guarded part of him she had
magically unlocked.  He wished he had spelled out in graphic detail
just what he felt for her, what she made him think, ses, feel.

Because now, he might never have the chance.  Now, in all likelihood,
those words would remain unspoken, and they could both be killed with
her never knowing that she had changed his very life.  Had given life
meaning.

He was standing there with his right arm of absolutely no use and he'd
never been worth a damn with his left.  His last chance had been stolen
right from under his nose.

Pain was shooting through him and he could feel the slow, steady
trickle of blood running down the inside of his sleeve.  He could smell
the sharp, coppery tang of it lingering in the air.  He'd truly botched
it.

He'd be damned if that was true.  He'd be damned if Bill Winslow was
going to waltz in here and steal dreams, hopes and futures away from
him.  An anger seized him, one so intense, so cold with hatred that it
literally shook him.  It swelled and magnified, infusing his veins with
liquid fury.

No.  He was going to have the chance to say those words to Kelsey.  No
psychopath of an ex-husband was going to stop him.  He thought of
Kelsey's original desire to kill Winslow, to wipe him from the face of
the earth.  And had to will himself to stay where he was, not to leap
for him right now, yelling madly, terrifying the man every bit as much
as he had ever terrified Kelsey.

"I don't think I would have found you quite this easily had it not been
for your little friend who called in on the L,auric Winters show.  Now
there's someone I'd really like to q. Not your friend, sweetheart, but
that bitch who wouldn't tell me which city the call came from.  Now
that wasn't fair, was it?"

John wished he could see Kelsey's face, wished he could be near enough
to her to know if she was all right, if Bill was qippling her with
fear.  He'd tried earlier to tell her, with his qes only, that he
wouldn't let Bill touch her.  That he would give his life trying to
keep him from her.  But he wasn't certain she understood.  How could
she? Hadn't he steadfastly held her at a distance, emotionally if not
physically?

But he hadn't been aloof, he wanted to tell her.  He'd tried telling
her, in his own strange way.  "You got in," he'd told her.  That was as
much as he'd ever told anyone.  Ever.

"How did you get in?"  he asked Winslow.  His voice sounded far away,
tinny somehow.  "Past the alarms?"

Winslow flicked him a contemptuous glance.  " " Oh, were those your
Tinkertoys, Chandler?  " He reached in his pocket qd pulled out a roll
of duct tape.  " I got this from a pilot and of mine.  He'll never miss
it.  " He chuckled and the qund made John's skin crawl.  He wondered
what the guys in the voice registration department would make of that

laugh, it sounded unhinged to him.

"So, I just taped the window, right about where the alarm ~qwas.  Piece
of cake.  I broke the glass, it didn't shatter, so qyeur little toy
only made a little noise.  I pushed the little button, and voila!"
Winslow turned his burning gaze to q==1K==lsey and falsettoed, "Honey,
I'm home!"

"John wanted to plant his fist, left or right, right in thisiting
bastard's mouth.  But he didn't dare, for fear the gun qq:qvould go off
and possibly hurt Kelsey, or even worse, take qqeiqn out of the picture
and leave her alone with this mon " You know, sweetheart, we never have
talked about the past," Winslow said.  " You're a hard lady to keep
dead.  " John remembered suddenly, in all-too-vivid detail, the icounts
of her death in the newspaper, on the television news.  He remembered
that stupid tennis shoe that Charlie had insisted they plant at the
scene.  He thought of Kelsey's bare feet now.  Was this to be the fate
they had brought on themselves by displaying her death for all the
world to sq, to read about?

No, he swore silently.  He wouldn't allow it.  But how to gain the
advantage?  Winslow was obviously one step away from totally
unravelling, but how to get him to cross that last step?

He took a small step forward, hoping against hope.  He devoutly prayed
that Winslow wasn't through bragging yet.

"Back off, lover boy.  I'm not quite ready to shoot you.  You haven't
begged me to, yet.  So, you get back there.  Another step.  And
another.  That's a good little agent."

John stepped backward until he felt Kelsey's body against his.  Good.
He felt better just touching her, being close enough that he could feel
her warmth, smell her lemony scent.

Kelsey had nearly screamed aloud when John took a step forward but
realized as soon as his body touched hers, leaned into hers in some
unspoken reassurance, that he'd planned it that way, he'd baited Bill
into making him back away.  She felt the first real glimmer of hope
since she'd seen that dancing shadow on the stairs, had learned that
John was still alive despite his shoulder wound.

"How cozy.  Just the two of you.  Moonlight and handguns Quite the
romantic couple.  But your guns aren't doing much now, are they?"

It was typical of Bill, Kelsey thought, to have to display his
awareness of detail, his knowledge, to demonstrate his control of a
situation.  But, she thought grimly, he wasn't dealing with the old
Kelsey, the piteous woman who would' grovel for mercy rather than stand
up to him.  And he didn q know John.  She had the stroog, clear sense
that Bill was trying his tricks on the wrong man.

She could feel the tension building in John, and a quick glance to the
side confirmed her suspicion.  Gone was the tender lover of the night
before.  Gone was the confusion, the uncertainty when she'd asked him
questions he'd rather not answer, questions about the future, about his
emotions And gone was the laughing partner, the easy friend.  In the
place of all qhat was a masterful agent, a total professional with a
bad guy in his narrowed sights.  Gun in his hand or not.

She still had one and could use it, too.  The age-old question was,
however, was she fast enough?  Could she out draw him?  She couldn't
take the risk-no matter how amateurish he looked holding that . 45-that
she could beat him to the trigger.

"You're making a mistake, Bill," she said.  She could almost hear John
willing her to continue.  She did feel the ;q:'fqghtest of pressures
from his left arm, his good hand.  Was b:s,:qbe warning her to stop, or
urging her forward?  tsz.  : She pressed on.  "You see, it doesn't
matter now.  You're tqipanted from West Virginia to Texas.  You'll
never get free

She couldn't help shrinking against John at the sudden cumphant light
that swept across Bill's features.  q'But you don't understand,
sweetheart.  I am free.  No one qqver been this free before.  You see,
always in the past, I have to play by the rules.  Some of the rules.  I
never bruised liqrq#aoe, remember?  I couldn't, you see, because people
have talked.  But now, don't you get it?  I don't have q by anyone's
rules but my own.  That's true freedom.  "lcilllover boy here, and no
one can stop me."  felt the truth of his words, insane though they it
as he raised the gun to arm's length, pointed it s heart.  say she
would stop him, for Bill would just g. John was there because of her,
and could die for the same reason.  She couldn't allow that to happen,
no matter what happened to her.

"Is control all that important to you, Bill?"  she asked.  "Does
destruction of something, someone, prove that you're better than they
are?  That makes you little more than a bully."

"Shut up, sweetheart.  And don't try hiding behind Mr.  Chandler now.
And don't step in front of him.  I'd just have to start with your
kneecaps and work my way up.  They tell me that's very, very painful.
And I'd still kill him.  You wouldn't want me to kill him so soon,
would you?"

Think, Kelsey !  she screamed at herself.  Think of something !

John could almost feel Winslow's feral look of contempt and power lust.
Poor old Pete inside that prison with Winslow all that time had hit the
mark about the man; he was the human equivalent of a wolverine. This
man killed for the pure pleasure of it.  Kelsey was right.  How could
anyone have talked to this man and not seen the fact that he was
certifiable?  How could any review board have let him loose?

But Kelsey had given him a trump card in her questions to Bill, in her
dismissing summation of her past abuse at this man's hands.  Winslow
was a bully.  He might be a sociopath , as the psychiatrists at the
trial said, or he might be that psychopath that Kelsey called him, but
whatever anyone wanted to label him, the bottom line came down to the
fact that he was a bully.  Pure and simple.

And bullies were insecure.

Now, how to turn that basic, childlike insecurity into an ace without
getting Kelsey murdered in the process?

He could think of only one way.  And it would probably mean certain
death for him.  But at least he wouldn't go without her hearing those
words that had been bottled up inside him for nearly a lifetime.  And
it would buy her time.  She would have that chance she'd wanted, to
finish things once and for all.  He'd felt her gun still in her hand,
felt it brush against his thigh.  She could shoot him now, and with the
FBI's blessing.

A strange gift, but a gift nonetheless.

Closing his eyes for a second in brief, utterly heartfelt prayer, he
turned slowly, steadily, and completely ignoring

Winslow, lifted his hands to Kelsey's face, ignoring the wrenching pain
in his right shoulder, the blood on his fingers

"What do you think you're doing?"  Bill burst out.

Kelsey almost echoed Bill's outburst.  She couldn't beIqve what John
had just done.  Couldn't believe he was facing her, hands upon her
face, cupping them in urgent tenderness, a wild light flickering in the
brown depths.

"I'm not hiding now, Kelsey.  I can't.  Just like I couldn't pretend
the other night.  I never pretended with you.  I q'qqqt: q She felt as
if some huge weight were being rolled from her.  t why now?  Was he so
despairing, so convinced that they d die that he felt he had to say the
words now?  Let them q the last she ever heard?  q:" Get your hands off
her," she heard Bill say, but she felt was saying it from far away. She
heard something else, a noise at he gate maybe.  But it didn't seem
important _ q not with John's hands touching her, willing her to listo
ium.  _ se yes bored into hers.  " I told you that when I was

I=was raised in an orphanage.  That was true, but I qtan orphan.  My
parents put me there.  They couldn't qvith having a kid and a life,
too.  I swore then-" _ what is this?  " ; went on as if Bill hadn't
spoken, repeating his

I swore then that I would never let myself in for of hurt again.  And I
didn't.  "

"Hey.  You.  Lover boy.  You think I'm kidding?  This isn't your show,
you know?  It's mine.  Now get the hell away from her !  "

"Not until now," John continued, as though he hadn't been interrupted.
Kelsey could only stare at him wonderingly , marveling at him.  "I was
married, you know that.  But I never let her inside.  She never got
through.  You did.  I meant what I said.  And what you were saying
earlier about futures... ?"

" " I'll tell you about futures if you don't let go of her!  " Bill
screamed.

With John's hands on her face, with him saying the words she'd so
longed to hear him speak, she wasn't afraid of Bill anymore.  John's
touch made Bill seem like a scorpion or a rattler..  some poisonous
creature that could be squashed.

"Yes?"  she asked breathlessly.  She leaned into him, ignoring

Bill completely.  She would rather die now than not hear this.  This
was life.  It was all she'd ever wanted from life.

He turned slightly, blocking her view of Bill, keeping his hands on her
face.

"Stop this!  I'll shoot you right now.  Do you hear me?  I said stop it
!  " Bill yelled.  He actually jumped up on both feet on his last
command, a child furiously demanding the return of his toy.

"I want a future, Kelsey.  With you: '

John held her face, looked deep into her eyes, and realized he was
saying every word he' de ver locked in his heartq

This wasn't merely a ploy to make Winslow so angry he'd lose that thin
hold on control.  He was uttering all the things he'd wanted to be able
to say every day for as long as he could remember.

He'd just never met the one woman he wanted to say them to.  "Now I
have you," he said, and meant it with all his; heart.

More than ever before, he knew he had to get her out of this.  For now,
after telling her, he knew that they deserved a future together, that
they were meant for each other.  He couldn't begin to imagine a life
without her.  Before he'd thought it was enough to want her more than
anything, but ]q realized now that it wasn't a matter of wanting that
future with her, it was a matter of not being able to live without
it.

He shifted another notch, blocking Winslow from her qq completely.  He
drew her even closer to him, willing her to understand, to believe.

Kelsey's heart seemed to have stopped beating.  She'd q nearly
forgotten Bill in her longing to believe John's quiet words of love.
But as he moved, understanding dawned.  He hadn't been saying farewell,
spilling every beautiful thought qat lived in his soul, he was only
working the moment, "';:qyqg the lover, acting for Bill's sake, to
throw him off might as well have let Bill kill her.  It would be easier
u' than knowing she'd clung to his every word, that his ing had cleaved
to her heart, her very soul, only to rer he'd been manipulating Bill
into losing control.  qo you trust me?  " John asked.  l screamed for
him to let her go.  But he didn't fire.  ; wanted to shake her head.
How could she trust him he was lying to her?  Yet, because of the night
before, the of the truth hidden in his words somewhere-even q them
later-she felt she had no choice.  qtst you," she said.  And to her
surprise, she found she v snapped.  He lunged across the room, diving
the kitchen doorway with the roar of a bull and the locomotive.  Intent
only on wresting Kelsey from brace, he forgot that he held a gun.

At the same time that Winslow charged, John pitched Kelsey from him and
lashed out sideways at Winslow's hand.  The Colt fired again as it spun
from Winslow's grasp.

As if in slow motion, John heard the gun's loud report and saw Kelsey
falling to the Saltillo-tiled kitchen floor.  For a moment time seemed
to stop, then slowly run backward.  He could hear his own voice saying
all the things she'd freed in him, could feel the truth of those things
echoing in his ears, in his heart.

She seemed to bounce on the floor, raise up for a moment , then drop
again, her arms limp, her long, dark hair lifting almost playfully to
dance in the air, only to fall again and lay still against her pale
face.

Oddly, the scream of denial wasn't his own, it came from Winslow.  He
turned, wondering how this was possible that Winslow could be alive and
Kelsey downed.

His yell of rage, of pure unadulterated hatred made Winslow drop to a
crouch and back away suddenly.  He leapt, lunging for the man, nothing
on his mind but Kelsey 's inert form and the sharp clarity of knowing
that, finally , even if it was too late for everything important in
life, Winslow was going to pay.

Kelsey heard the twin screams, recognized both voices and the nuances
behind each one.  Bill was furious because nothing was going according
to plan.  But in John's cry she heard the echo of what he'd been
telling her earlier, and the sharp echo of what she had felt earlier.
He believed her dead.

She wasn't dead.  She needed to tell him that, but couldn't think how
with all the noise.  She was only grazed on her left upper arm.  It
hurt, but not very much.  Something between a bee sting and a burn.  A
very bad burn, she thought giddily Her head hurt more from having
slammed into the tile.

Her vision blurred, but cleared with her next thought.  John.  He
thought she'd been shot.  His scream, his yell, was one of pure
vengeance.  He was going to kill Winslow .  for her.

She pushed herself unsteadily to her knees, groping for the bar,
fumbling to retrieve her .  38 from the floor.  She found it.  It felt
foreign in her hand.

She could see the two men slamming into each other with absolute
killing hatred.  She was momentarily sickened, not, oddly enough, at
the sheer brutality, but because her age-old wish was about to come
true.  John was going to kill Bill.  Because of her, he wasn't waiting
for the troops to rush in , wasn't fighting Winslow by the rules.  He
wanted Winslow dead.  For her.

She had to stop it.

She had practiced firing at a moving target a thousand times, was an
expert marksman with the .  38.  But now, with Winslow in her sights,
she found her hands were shaking, her knees were trembling.  And Bill
had nothing to do with it.

She couldn't shoot because she was afraid, dreadfully afraid she would
miss and accidentally hit John.  One sudden shift, one wrong turn, one
trembling hand and she could kill the one man who made life worth
living, the one man who made her understand that extreme justice only
bred extreme injustice.

Without a second thought, she raised her hands and fired the gun at the
ceiling.  Both men flinched and rolled aside to face her, Bill
screaming something at her, John staring at her as though she were a
ghost, in mingled fear and wild hope.

She felt cold and hot at the same time, and mindless.  She didn't so
much as hesitate.  She shot across the floor as though propelled by jet
fuel and dropped to a protective crouch beside Bill.  Completely
ignoring John, she held the squat gun barrel to Bill's temple.

"It's over," she said, meaning it absolutely.  "It is over, forever.
"

Her hand trembled with her hatred of him, her past fear of him.  He'd
caused her so much pain, so much anguish, and now her moment, the
moment she'd worked for, trained for some three long years, was finally
at hand.  And the worst thing he'd ever done to her was let her think
John was dead, was make John believe she was.  The moment was at hand,
all right.  Her hand.

Suddenly she could remember every time he'd struck her, every time he'd
humiliated her, clearly recalled, in stark detail , an afternoon when
four FBI agents had come knocking at her door to tell her that he'd put
out a contract on her, that her husband wanted her dead.  And she could
remember -still felt it-that gut-wrenching despair when she'd thought
he'd killed John.

Could she kill him?  Could she pull that trigger?

Yes.  Yes, she could.  Somebody had to.  Her finger curled around the
narrow strip of metal.  It fit her finger exactly, funny how she'd
never noticed that.  It felt so right.  Yes, she knew she could pull
the trigger.  She knew she could end it right now.  Forever.  She'd
never wanted anything more.

But that wasn't true, was it?

She did want something more than she wanted Bill dead.  She wanted far
more than that.

Her hand was trembling with fear and her heart was pounding too
rapidly, too erratically.  But the trembling wasn't caused by Bill
Winslow, and her heart beat not in hatred, not in bloodlust, but with
love for someone else.

John had watched her dazzlingly swift action with awe.  He'd no sooner
heard the shot than she'd whipped across the kitchen to press the gun
to Winslow's temple.  He saw the hatred on her face, the long
suppressed moment of revenge making her hands tremble, her face
white.

He wanted to tell her to just do it.  He'd stand by her; hell, he'd
even claim he did it, or that she'd had to do it in selfqtreme defence.
It wouldn't even get to court, he'd see to that.  Any D. A. would
believe him.

He heard the front gate shatter, heard the frantic pound iq on the
front door.  If you're going to do it, honey, he begged, do it now.
While I can still help you, while I can still do something about it.

Slowly, her sultry voice marred with emotion, Kelsey started speaking.
"I..  love... you... John.  I... love you far..  more than... I hate
this..  man," she said.  She sounded drugged, as though she were
fighting to get each word out of her mouth.

John felt his heart stop.  He looked up from the gun to see her face,
to see if he could read the truth there.  She was staring at Winslow,
but her lips were curving slightly, a soft, beautiful smile touching
them.

Tears sprang to his eyes at her decision, at her amazing struggle with
one of the hardest, most difficult things to let go of in life-hatred.
She'd said she loved him more.  There was no greater testament than
that.

Winslow had said earlier that not playing by the rules made him free.
He was dead wrong.  Love from a woman like Kelsey made a man free. Gave
him everything on earth, and more.  q'It's over," John said.  " It's
finally over.  "

John pulled himself up, stood groggily beside her.  He looked down at
Bill Winslow's confused, whey-colored face , and to Kelsey's calm,
almost serene stance.  He had admired her before, had been angry with
her, had conceded to her, had held her in his arms in glorious passion.
But he'd never been so proud of her as he was now.

"You are undoubtedly the most remarkable woman," he said.

"I thought I was a menace."  "

" That, too.  "

Winslow murmured something.  Kelsey just pressed the gun barrel deeper
into his temple.  He was immediately silent

"Would you open my door before they knock it down, too?"  she asked.

The front door crashed open and a full regalia of armed men stormed the
room.  They took in the situation at a glance, and everyone froze.

"Too late," she said.

John grinned and waved his teams forward.

As they cautiously approached Winslow, John said, "If there's anything
you've proven to me in the past few days, Kelsey, it's that it's never
too late."

He placed his left hand beneath her good shoulder and helped her to her
feet.

She smiled up at him.  "Is that an offer?"  she asked.  "Now, don't
give me one of those no-yes answers.  Don't even stop and think about
it.  Remember, I have a gun...."

Monday, November 29 10: 00 a. m. , Lccbbock, Texas

"We look like we're on a peace march," Kelsey said, tracing her finger
along John's white, medical arm band.

"We'd cancel each other out politically... I'm right you're left."

She looked over at the tray of goodies he'd brought up to their room.
"There's nothing left there, either."

John groaned and pulled her over to him.  She settled on his chest in a
now familiar position, placed an elbow on either side of his head, and
winced as the bandage around her arm pulled in protest.  " " When did
the doctor say yours would be off?  " he asked.

"Day after tomorrow," she said.

"And mine a week later."

She made a curtain of her hair and framed his face.  It could have been
night.

"Are you going to keep your hair dark?"  he asked.

She smiled and tossed it over her shoulder, letting the sun back in. "I
don't know.  I rather like it."

"So do I," he said, but she could have green hair for all he cared.  As
long as she was with him.  As long as he could run his hands through
that silken mass and feel it spilling over his body.

She cocked her head slightly and smiled, but her eyes were serious.

"What?"  he asked.

"It's time to talk about tomorrow," she said.

"Are we going somewhere?"

Her smile broadened and a flicker of it met her gaze.  John was sure
he'd never been so happy.  He ran his hands down Iqer back, loving the
feel of her satin skin.  He grinned up at her, tickling her a little.
She squirmed against him and to his Qwn surprise he found himself
responding.  "There isn't going to be any tomorrow if we keep this up,"
he said.  "I'll be a dead man."

"You love it," she said knowingly.  " " I do.  " He leered.  " qd you
love me," she announced.  qq " Yes," he agreed.  He wondered at the
admission ever ' g been difficult.  It was so very, very easy when that
was returned, wl>en it was constantly, joyously enticed qqfnum him.
qqqq'And I love you.  The thing is, I can't stay in Lubbock, ss, while
you live in D.C.," she said.  q',"qThatwould be problematic," he said.
He pretended to e it hard thought.  "It would be a long time between q
smiled, but a shadow had crept into her eyes.  He n't bear to see it.
Not in Kelsey's eyes.

"I've been giving this a lot of thought," he said.  And he had.  "And I
see it this way, you could join the Bureauyou 're better than most of
the folks they hire-and we could go out on team assignments."

She grinned, the shadow fading from those glorious blue eyes.  God, how
he loved her.  " " Or, " he said, " " I could quit the Bureau and we
could start a private detective agency-Chandler and Chandler
immediately comes to mind-and we could hire out for comic relief."

She continued to smile, but John could still detect the shadow.

"Or," he said, trying not to laugh, "we could join the circus.  I'm
sure there's a real need for the Chandlers' amazing rice cake
routine."

She chuckled, but didn't answer.  A bad sign, he thought, and reveled
in knowing that, in understanding her so well, he could read her moods,
knew the telltale signs of her joy, her passion, her discomfort.

"Seriously, Kelsey, I don't really care where we are or what we do.  I
want you to be with me forever.  Married.  White picket fence.  Nash
Rambler in the driveway-"

"A Nash Rambler?"  she asked with a chuckle, the shadow gone completely
now.

"Well, if I quit, and you quit, it'll be about the only thing we can
afford.  I'll bet, if we ask, Mrs.  Stedman has one in her garage.
But," he added before she could pipe in , "there's another solution
altogether.  Why don't we get married, you move to D.C."  I'll take the
Washington beat; and you do your seminars and training classes in a
city with about a hundred thousand more clients.  "

"It was the being with you forever part I was after," she said.  "The
logistics can wait."

It was his turn to chuckle.

"Are we going to watch the news today?"  she asked.

"Don't we always?"

"Let's don't," she said.  And he knew why; the courts in three states
were handing down their decisions on Bill Winslow today.

"Don't you want to know?"  he asked.

She shook her head.  "West Virginia's already basically said it's the
death penalty.  Texas is calling for one, too.  Colorado is going to go
for life.  His attorney is going for insanity.  Let them haggle over
Bill Winslow's hide.  I don't care.  For me, it's over."

She sighed, looked thoughtful, then smiled at him with such warmth,
such tenderness, it took his breath away.  "It's over and done with."

"No, it isn't," he said, running his hands up her sides, tracing the
soft swell of her breast pressing against him.  "It's not over by a
long shot."

He raised her up slightly, holding her above him, taking an already
stiff nipple into his mouth.

She arched her back to meet his hot mouth, to allow him to suckle, to
flick her with his teeth, his lips, his tongue.  Sharp, jagged streaks
of sensation shot through her, firing her anew, rekindling a flame
she'd believed so thoroughly banked it might not bear heat again for
days.  But she could never get enough of John.  Never.

She swung her legs around him, straddling him, riding as he replaced
mouth and tongue with hands and fingers She sat up straight, resting
lightly over him, feeling him beneath her.  ran her hands through the
brown crisp curls on his t,lightly strafing his small nipples with her
nails, 'q ging them to taut points.  He moaned softly and raised itips.
She rubbed against him and he moaned louder.  iling, she knelt over
him, kissing first his mouth, then "neck, the hollows in his
collarbone, the muscled chest.  s swept down her back, teasing her,
imploring her.  ed his hands lower, cupping her buttocks, lifting her
slightly, molding her to his grip, kneading, exhorting h~r to take
him.

She resisted, though her entire body felt limp with the ache to feel
him inside her once again.  This time was her qtime.  He'd given her so
very much.  She wanted to return his regard a thousand fold

His skin felt soft and supple, she thought, his muscles rippling
beneath her touch.  And he smelled of her and of him, of a thousand
memories of the days before, the nights in between.  She drank it in
like the finest of wines.

When he would have rolled over, she spread his arms out , to the side,
telling him he couldn t move, that he was bound, by honor if nothing
else, to remain where he was.  This was her turn for exploration, for
discovery.

And she delighted in every moan, every groan, and each small tensing or
stretching to meet her tongue, her hands, her questing touch.

"I can't take this," he said.

"You have to," she replied, smiling, but feeling she couldn't take much
more, either.

His hands lifted from the bed suddenly, capturing her, stopping her. He
rolled her onto her back and pinned her against the bed.  He swept her
hands above her head and held them with one of his.

"Your arm's getting better," she said.

"Watch me," he answered.

She chuckled, then gasped as he bent over her and took a turgid nipple
into his mouth.  Still keeping her pinned.  his hands stroked her from
her wrists to her knees, lightly then firmly, and then so delicately
that she shivered in reflexive response.  He nipped her like a stallion
and allowed his tongue free rein.

She murmured his name, writhing beneath him: arching up to him, aching
for him, begging for him.  And stil?  he wouldn't stop.

His fingers found the hot, wet core of her and slid inside, dancing a
rhythm that made her shudder, made her arc'y to i take him in.  His
mouth plundered hers, and gently, roughly, took her breasts, one then
the other, playing no favorites.

And still he held her hands far above her head while his tongue
traveled lower, tracing the dip of her waist, the swell of her stomach,
the sensitive apex of her thighs.  He flicked his tongue across her
swollen and eager core, keeping his fingers where they were, moving
them faster and faster.

His hand released hers and slid sensually down her arm, across her
shoulders and to her breasts.  Touching her in all places, demanding
she give him everything she had to give, he encouraged that rare trust,
that beauty only he could inspire

She called his name and arched even higher.

And he stopped abruptly.  She opened her eyes, nearly stunned senseless
by his onslaught, by his sudden cessation

"Are you going to marry me?  And don't give me one of your
it's-cereal-for-you answers.  Now, as you can no doubt ; see ... I have
the gun."

He hovered over her for a moment, his weaponry obvious She chuckled and
opened herself to him.

"You're going to have to use it," she said.

"You're a very tough lady," he said, smiling as he slipped inside her.
; She cupped his face with both hands.  "Oh, yes, John," she said.

"Is that your answer?"

"It is."

"I suppose shaking on the deal would be a moot point , now," he said.

"Oh, I'm shaking," she said.

He chuckled, but very soon, he was shaking, too.

It was only just.

