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LAYNIE ASKED THE FRONT desk to wake her at 4:30 a.m. After they called, she dressed, ran a brush through her hair, grabbed her purse, and headed downstairs to the lobby. When the elevator door opened, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee hit her.
“Oh, yes . . .” she muttered to herself. “Yes, yes, yes.”
She grabbed a cup and filled it with the hotel’s complementary coffee, then took it with her into the business center. She sat down at one of the computers and sipped several scalding mouthfuls from her cup before she set to her tasks. She estimated at least twenty minutes of work ahead of her before she would be ready.
She opened her handbag and drew out the CD-ROM case she had been so careful not to lose or leave behind in her travels. She removed the Final Fantasy IX disc, set it aside, popped out the unmarked disc hidden beneath, and slipped it into the computer’s CD drive. When the CD’s window popped up, she browsed its folder.
She clicked the program on the disc that would enable her to bypass the Westmount’s network administrative restrictions. In only minutes, it overrode the restrictions and granted her admin privileges. Once she had unfettered access to the system, she copied the VoIP software installation code from the CD, buried it inside the computer’s operating system, and executed its installation program.
It was after eleven in Stockholm when Laynie slipped on the headphones and dialed Christor’s laptop. The call rang and rang. She hung up.
Perhaps he’s gone to lunch early?
She wasn’t worried that someone in the IT Department would see the call on his screen. Christor always locked his computer before stepping away, and the call wouldn’t register on the monitor when the system was locked.
She tried again. Still no answer.
Another hotel guest, up early, entered the business center. He sat down at the second computer and started typing. Laynie turned her head a fraction to check out his screen. He was reading email.
On her screen, Laynie dialed Christor’s number a third time.
Could Marstead have discovered Christor’s VoIP program? And if so, have I given away my location? Worse, by giving away my location, have I exposed my last ID?
She sat at the computer, waiting. Hoping. Her teeth on edge.
When a call warbled in her headset, she jumped.
Exhaling, she picked up the call.
Christor’s cautious voice whispered in her ears, “Linnéa?”
Laynie had never heard anything as welcome as Christor’s voice. She opened a chat window and typed, “Yes. No microphone.”
“I’m so glad to hear from you, Linnéa! Are you all right?”
“So far. News?”
“Lots. I hardly know where to start.”
“Marstead?”
“No changes there, I’m sorry to say.”
She typed, “Petroff?”
Christor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s the news. Marstead agents followed Petroff’s people into Sweden a week ago. The Russians visited the village you supposedly grew up in. They dug around and asked about you. All was fine until they spoke at length to a retired teacher from your primary school.
“After the Russians left, Marstead agents interviewed the same teacher. He said the Russians had asked about you. Even though your name was on the roster of classes he taught, he told them that he’d never heard of you. Your cover is blown, Linnéa.”
Laynie shivered. Once Petroff realized that Linnéa had lied to him about her past, whatever influence her persuasive letter may have had on him would be gone. She had betrayed him, and he would never stop hunting her . . . not unless she forced him to.
Her fingers touched the keyboard again. “Send the package.”
“Are you sure, Linnéa? It might . . . it might backfire. Might cause an international—”
“Do it.”
“All right. I will.” He hesitated, then added, “I, um, did I see your face on the news, Linnéa? Flight 6177 from London to New York?”
Laynie bowed her head, rubbed her eyes. If Christor had recognized her from the grainy photograph, both Marstead and Petroff’s people—specifically Zakhar—surely would have, too.
Zakhar.
He could be on the ground already. Here in Canada. Right now.
“Linnéa? Are you still there? Are you okay?”
She typed, “Yes, okay. Will be okay. Thank you, Christor, again, for your friendship. SEND THE PACKAGE.”
“I will, Linnéa.”
“Today?”
“All right. Today.”
“Goodbye for now, Christor.”
She ended the call and closed the VoIP program window. While she was removing all traces of the program from the computer, she was thinking hard.
Zakhar! He has disliked me for years, but I earned his permanent animosity my last day in St. Petersburg. He won’t ever forget how I humiliated him in Petroff’s eyes—his hatred will fuel his determination. An angry Zakhar is more of a threat to me than Marstead.
She thought about the contents of the package, her letter threatening to expose Petroff and the CD backing up her threat.
Petroff is the only one who can deter Zakhar, but even if Christor sends the package today? It may take as long as a week before it is delivered to Petroff and he calls off Zakhar. I need to move and keep moving, never stopping long in any one place. Until Petroff recalls Zakhar, that man remains my greatest threat.
She ejected the disc from the CD drive and put it back in the case. She had picked up the game disc to do the same when a voice behind her spoke.
“Hey. Um, you play Final Fantasy?”
Laynie snapped the case closed. She turned with an open smile. “I do. Not as much as I would like since I’m on the road a lot for business.”
“I am, too—on the road a lot, I mean. That’s why I bring my PlayStation with me when I travel.”
Laynie laughed. “Really? You have your console here? In your room?”
“I sure do. It’s a great way to unwind after a long day in yet another hotel.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“Thanks. I’m really glad I have it right now. Since I’m stuck here. With all the canceled flights, I mean.”
She watched him gather up his nerve.
“Uh, if you’d like to play, this afternoon or evening, we could meet up? I always pack an extra controller in case my first one craps out.”
She took inventory of the man. He was probably in his early thirties. Interested. Eager.
And way out of his league.
“I’d like that, um . . .
“Justin. I’m Justin.”
Laynie’s smile warmed. She reached out her hand. “I’m Beverly. What room are you in, Justin?”
He flushed as he took her hand, more excited than he wanted to let on. “I’m in 6096. Sixth floor.”
“Can I come up later on when I’ve finished my work?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, sure. Absolutely.”
“Well, Justin, I look forward to . . . playing with you later on.”
She let her fingers linger in his hand a moment longer than necessary. Then she gathered her things and left, dropping another high-wattage smile in her wake.
Laynie returned to her room to better prepare herself for the busy day ahead. She ordered breakfast, then took a long shower. While she stood under the hot water, she wondered at the serendipitous nature of this new acquaintance, Justin. Out of the blue, she had a means of warning Petroff off in a timelier manner, ahead of the arrival of the package containing her threatening letter with the proof that would make her threat stick.
Her thoughts roamed back to the genesis of her relationship with Petroff and how their work in technology had brought them together on common ground. In fact, before they became lovers, Petroff and Linnéa often attended tech and tech-related conventions and exhibitions at the same time—Petroff as a member of the Russian government and Linnéa as an account executive for Marstead. After their relationship caught fire, they had used the conventions as a means to further their trysts and to compare notes on interesting technological advances.
The conventions and expos were all about faster and more complex computers, cell phones, and compact disc systems. However, the major tech companies, motivated by rapid advances in integrated circuitry, pushed out new products and applications faster than consumers could comprehend them—or the market could bear.
That was the downside of new technology. It staled quickly. The window to capitalize on an emergent product was only about six months, meaning whichever company or nation could bring the hottest tech to market first—or weaponize it first—would garner the envied reputation and reap its financial, often political, rewards.
Enter the burgeoning world of video gaming.
It had surprised Linnéa—and astounded her Marstead handlers—that it took a mutual love of video gaming to solidify her budding romance with Petroff. It was their shared fascination of gaming that helped her achieve what Petroff’s other women had been unable to attain, a long-term relationship with him.
IT WAS MAY OF 1995, soon after Linnéa had moved to St. Petersburg. Linnéa accompanied Petroff to a new type of technology trade event, the Electronic Entertainment Expo in California, organized and hosted by the Entertainment Software Association. The Expo allowed developers, publishers, and manufacturers of video game software and hardware to showcase their gaming systems and game-related peripherals and merchandise.
Although the event was touted as entertainment, Petroff had requested permission to attend. “Some of our scientists believe these gaming systems will have military applications,” he told Linnéa by way of explanation. “I do not believe it myself, but these games and their platforms are intriguing.”
Only individuals who could verify a professional connection to the video game industry could attend. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs provided Petroff with credentials attesting to such a connection. Marstead concocted the same for Linnéa.
To Petroff’s amazement, forty thousand enthused vendors, buyers, and journalists crowded the Los Angeles Convention Center. He and Linnéa spent hours watching game demonstrations on large screens—race cars, soccer, American football, and battles ranging from epic fantasy to modern combat warfare.
The convention produced two important results. First, Petroff—by leveraging the weight of the Russian government—took home his first game console, the latest version of the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. Second, Christor brushed past Linnéa in the crowd, leaving behind a folded slip of paper in her hand.
An hour later, Linnéa left Petroff’s side to use the facilities. A convention official had whispered something of Petroff’s status in the Russian government to the Nintendo vendor, and Petroff was engrossed in playing an advance copy of a cartoonish game, Super Mario World 2—and something more about an island belonging to someone named Yoshi. The vendor was coaching Petroff in the game, and Petroff was determined to complete the level. He hardly noticed when she left.
Linnéa exited the main convention hall, turned right, and spotted the door Christor’s note had said would be ajar. He drew her into the facilities hallway, out of sight of convention goers, and locked the door behind them.
Linnéa was genuinely moved to see her friend and threw her arms about him. He hugged her in return and then stepped back, abashed at her physical closeness.
“Alvarsson thought a friendly face might do you good.”
“You have no idea.”
Christor passed on messages to her, all verbal. She relayed the status of her relationship with Petroff.
“He dresses me in jewels and gowns and flaunts me before his cronies at every formal function he is obliged to attend. He expects me to be charming, erudite, and apolitical. I’m allowed to be learned in art, literature, music—even technology—but must feign ignorance of geopolitics.”
“How should I describe the status of your relationship with Petroff? Is it progressing?”
“You can tell Alvarsson that Petroff has asked that I move to Moscow. It will soon become a demand.”
“Alvarsson will be pleased, Linnéa.”
She could tell Christor was anything but pleased. He was worried about her. That was one reason why she didn’t mention the aftermath of a recent state dinner she’d attended with Petroff.
Linnéa had expressed an opinion Petroff had disapproved of. When they returned to his apartment that evening, she had been the object of his anger. It had started with him pulling her close, holding her too tightly and kissing her too hard—hard enough to bruise her mouth. When she attempted to pull away, he had bit her lip, drawing blood.
“You must not embarrass me before my peers, Linnéa,” he had warned her.
It had been the first and only time to date he’d hurt her. She hoped it would be the last. It had, however, produced Petroff’s desired outcome. Linnéa would be more reticent and circumspect in the future.
“I cannot be absent much longer, Christor. Petroff will notice and be angry. Have you any orders for me?”
“Yes. You are to play video games with Petroff.”
“What?”
“Be willing, even eager, to learn how to play video games with him. Make a habit of it. Relay to us which games are his favorites. I will purchase copies of the games, restructure them, and an agent will pass them to you. You will switch out the original games for the new ones.”
“To what purpose?”
Christor nodded. “Some upcoming games have chat functions built into them for what’s being called “online gaming.” That’s where competitors, across a broadband connection, meet up at the same time and play against each other. I will build enhanced chat capabilities into each new game so that you and I can message without using our laptops to access a bulletin board. It will be faster and more secure.”
He saw the concern in Linnéa’s expression. “Don’t worry—Petroff won’t discover our chats. Only a series of specific moves within the game can activate a hidden chat session. I will send you instructions on how it works.”
When Petroff and Linnéa returned to Russia following the convention, he brought with him the game console. Three months later, Linnéa moved to Moscow to live with him, and she saw that gaming had already become one of Petroff’s passions.
One evening, after watching him play for hours, she asked, “Vassi, moy lyubimyy, these games fascinate me. Would you teach me how to play?”
He was surprised by her request but agreed to teach her. Or at least try to teach her.
You were not as surprised as I was, Vassili Aleksandrovich, Laynie reminisced, to discover that I was quite good at gaming. Good enough to best you, but smart enough not to win nearly as often as I could have.
With both of them playing on a regular basis, Petroff turned his apartment’s dining room into a gaming den with a dedicated television screen. Each year, he upgraded to the best new gaming platforms and their games, but Final Fantasy—the epic battle between good and evil situated in a fantastical world of love, loyalty, magic, and rivalry—became their favorite and remained so through the game’s many evolutions.
Each time Petroff ordered and received the newest version of Final Fantasy, Christor would have already provided Linnéa with a “restructured” copy, a copy with covert capabilities that improved with each game iteration. As soon as Petroff received a disc in the mail, Linnéa changed it out for Christor’s copy, destroying the original disc before she and Petroff had played on it.
The most recent restructured copy of Final Fantasy remained with Petroff’s PlayStation 2. Christor, however, had provided Laynie with a duplicate of the disc. He had left it in the drawer of her desk in St. Petersburg, placed within the specially constructed case where the game served as a mask for the CD-ROM beneath it.
Christor had left the game disc to do more than hide the CD-ROM—it, like his own copy, could communicate with Petroff’s copy.
All Laynie lacked was a game console and yet—voilà!—one had “magically” appeared.
Laynie toweled off and dressed. She was drying her hair when breakfast arrived. She took it out on her balcony and, while she ate, stared west. Where yesterday’s clouds had threatened rain, today’s sky was clear.
From Laynie’s hotel room, she could see the shimmer of the Ottawa River as it joined the St. Lawrence, their combined waters wending their way to the Gulf of St. Laurence, to eventually reach the Atlantic. More than one hundred miles southwest of her room, Lake Erie, by way of the Niagara River, thundered over the great Niagara Falls and poured into Lake Ontario, which fed into the St. Lawrence River.
Niagara Falls? Those poor newlyweds, Laynie thought. Are they still stuck in Moncton instead of enjoying their honeymoon adventure?
She followed the ribbon of the Ottawa River to where it disappeared from view into the unfamiliar mountains that ran alongside it and into the distance. A glimmer of an idea began to take shape.
Hmm. Worth exploring. Later.
At present, she had more pressing matters.
Laynie finished her breakfast, grabbed her purse, and headed downstairs. She left the Westmount and walked toward the HSBC branch about a mile distant. When she arrived, the bank’s doors had just opened. Laynie crossed the vestibule and approached a teller.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m an account holder at an HSBC branch in Singapore. I’d like to open a Canadian account and transfer money from my Singapore account into my Canadian account to fund my stay in Canada.”
“Certainly, ma’am. I must notify you that HSBC banks in Singapore operate under different regulations than our banks in Canada. That means the full amount of your transfer will not be immediately available for use.”
“I understand.”
“Very good. To begin, I will need the following items—your HSBC Singapore account number, two forms of photo ID to confirm your identity, and your mailing address. Please write your Singapore account number on this form.”
Laynie wrote the number, then produced her American passport and driver’s license. “You may use the address on my license.”
The address on her license was the same as a retired D.C. accountant. Christor had located him, and Laynie had hired and kept him on retainer, paying him and his expenses on her behalf from her Singapore account. The tax specialist performed two recurring tasks for Laynie. He received her monthly credit card statements and paid them each month.
The accountant also had a single, one-time task . . . which Christor would trigger in the event of Laynie’s death or if he did not hear from her for ninety days running, or—as a second fail-safe—if the accountant failed to receive payment three months in a row. Under those circumstances, he could assume that both Laynie and Christor were removed from the equation.
Christor regularly browsed mail-order catalogs and made purchases over the phone. He used her credit card number but had the purchases sent to various homeless shelters. To date, Laynie’s card had provided shipments of blankets, pillows, coats, or other necessary items as one-time gifts to homeless shelters in nineteen states—after which, the accountant paid off the card. The ruse had kept Laynie’s card, under her present name, in good standing.
“It will take a few minutes to set up your account and signature cards. Once the account is in the system, we will request the transfer. Full funding requires a minimum of 48 hours. Unfortunately, because today is Thursday and we are closed weekends, the full amount will not be available until Monday morning. Would you like to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee while I am preparing your signature cards?”
Monday! Four wasted, precarious days. Laynie had not planned to remain in Montreal so long. The longer she stayed in any one place, the greater the danger that someone would recognize or, if questioned, remember her.
I want to lose myself in Canada for a while before dropping down into the States. I can’t do that without money to buy a car. I’ll just have to move from one hotel to another until Monday. Even then, when I have cash to buy a car, I need to be careful where I buy it.
To the clerk she replied, “Yes. Thank you. Is there a minimum amount I can withdraw before Monday?”
“We can cash a check up to five hundred dollars.”
“Thank you.”
Laynie did as the teller suggested. She indulged in her third cup of coffee and sat down in a grouping of chairs and sofas to wait. While she waited, she planned how she would hide in the city for an additional four days.
Ten minutes later, the teller called, “Elaine Granger, please.”
Laynie returned to the counter and signed two signature cards. The teller compared the signatures with the one on her American passport and driver’s license.
“How is the weather in Washington, D.C.?” the teller asked as she finalized Laynie’s account.
“Goodness. I really wouldn’t know. I haven’t been home in weeks. I was in Canada on business, and now I’m stuck here like everyone else until the planes can fly again. I thought I would use the forced downtime to do some sightseeing.”
“A wonderful idea. Now, please fill out and sign this form to authorize the wire transfer.”
Laynie filled out the form, asking for a transfer of $40,000.
“Thank you, Ms. Granger.” The teller produced a blank check. “As I said, we can approve a cash withdrawal of up to five hundred Canadian dollars.”
Laynie wrote the check and received the money, folding it into her wallet.
“Thank you.”
“Have a good day, Ms. Granger.”
Laynie turned away, then back, as though she’d forgotten something. “Say, can you recommend a hotel nearby? One with a business center?”
“Try the Fontainebleau. A bit pricy, but worth it. Turn left at the corner. I believe it is six blocks farther.”
Perfect. Because I need a new hotel.
Feeling flush, Laynie went back to the department store and purchased more casual clothing—jeans, T-shirts, a sweater, jogging pants, running shoes, more socks, and sundry items.
She returned to the Westmount and called the Fontainebleau. “Hello. Yes, I’d like a room for the night. Oh, and I will not be able to check in until late this evening.”
She provided her credit card information to secure the room, then she called the front desk of her own hotel. “Hello, this is room 5018. I’ll be checking out early tomorrow. Yes, everything has been lovely, thank you.”
She made a third call. “Good morning, I’d like to rent a car. You’re out of cars? Oh. I see. Because of the planes being grounded.”
She called every car rental agency listed in the phone book. The result was the same until she reached a local rental place far down on the list.
“You do? Yes, I understand—for local use only. Five days, please. I’ll pick up the car shortly.”
Laynie called a cab. When it arrived, she gave the driver the name of the rental company. The rental agency’s lot was several miles away, and the cabbie had to meander through an older residential area to arrive at a fenced lot that was home to more junked cars than working ones.
She paid the driver and walked to the office.
“These are the two rentals we have available today,” the owner told her. “All we’ve got left, I’m afraid.”
Laynie’s choice was between a five-year-old sedan with a dented rear fender and a newer van. She took the less conspicuous sedan and paid for the rental with her credit card.
As she drove away, she retraced the exact route the taxi had taken. She’d seen something she wanted to examine more closely. Halfway through the residential area, she pulled over and parked.
She studied the house across the street and the two vehicles in the driveway. The compact car was twice as old as the sedan she was driving, but it had been recently washed and waxed. Even the tires shone. And although the house needed paint, the yard, too, was tidy.
Senior citizens, Laynie hypothesized. Limited income but making the most of what they have to work with. Not able to travel as they did in their earlier years?
The second vehicle had added to her assumptions. The aging motor home with the FOR SALE sign in its rear window was well cared for. Its tires were chocked and leveled, the windows were clean, the chrome ladder and roof rack gleamed.
Laynie’s heavy weight of problems seemed suddenly lighter.
She stepped from her car and walked across the street to give the motor home a closer going over. She hadn’t been in the drive more than a minute when the house’s front door opened.
“She’s a champ, I can tell you that.”
Laynie turned a smile on the old man. “I can see you’ve taken wonderful care of her.”
“Well, she was pretty wonderful to us. Took us on some grand adventures, she did. Hate to say goodbye.”
He blinked at the end of his sentence, and Laynie spotted a sheen of moisture over his eyes.
She didn’t understand why her next words were, “Would you share some of your adventures with me?”
He nodded as if it was the most normal and expected request. “Come on in, miss. Kettle’s on. We’ll have a cuppa tea and tell you all about her.”
He leaned inside the house. “Bessie-gal, we got company!”
Extending a calloused hand to Laynie, he said, “George Bradshaw, miss. Nobody calls me George though. Go by Shaw.”
Laynie took his hand—a hand still strong from regular labor. “Elaine Granger.”
“Well, Miss Granger, you are welcome in our home.”
Stepping inside was like falling back thirty years in time—olive-green shag carpeting, dark wood paneling, two worn recliners, and a sofa kept in pristine condition by a yellowing plastic cover.
“Miss Granger, this here’s my bride, Bessie. Bessie, this is Miss Granger. She’s a-looking at Daisy.”
Daisy? “Please call me Elaine,” Laynie said softly.
Bessie was rotund and soft, her smile dimpling up the wealth of wrinkles in her cheeks and under her eyes. “Will you set with us in the kitchen, Elaine? Can I tempt you with fresh-baked pecan cinnamon buns to go with your tea?”
Laynie’s nose twitched and caught the aroma of warm . . . bliss. “I would love to be tempted by your, er, fresh-baked pecan cinnamon buns.” She was salivating already.
Laynie sat at the homey kitchen table while Bessie brewed the tea in an old-fashioned china pot.
Laynie devoured one of the sticky pastries while she sipped her tea. She eyed a second one but told herself “no.” Petroff would never have allowed her even the first bun. He was forever critiquing her figure, cruel in his criticism if he thought she’d gained an ounce.
A chuckle burst from Laynie’s mouth, and she reached for a second sticky roll. You do not own me any longer, Vassili Aleksandrovich. She smiled her audacity wider as she bit into the bun’s sugary goodness.
All the while, Bessie and Shaw pattered along, reliving thirty-five years of traveling the country—initially, with a tent and their three children. Later, when the kids had left home, in the motor home they’d named Daisy. They had traipsed across Canada, visiting the grown children and a passel of grandchildren, camped near the glaciers of the Rockies, and toured the Pacific Ocean coast of British Columbia all the way into Alaska.
“How did you two meet?” Laynie asked.
“Why, Shaw and I met each other when we were little ’uns. Started school together, we did, and by the time we hit high school, we were always in cahoots, catching the dickens for one thing or another,” Bessie laughed. “See, we grew up in the aftermath of the Great Depression. Our folks lost what money they had saved when the markets crashed and the banks failed. My dad lost his job and couldn’t find another one. We lost our home. Had to live with his parents. Those were hard years.”
“Similar story, here,” Shaw confirmed. “In our family, we kids never knew if we’d see food on the table, let alone any of the fun some lucky youngsters had, like the cinema or when the circus came to town. Had to make our own fun those days—but we made a peck o’ trouble, too. Fact is, the only thing free in our neighborhood was church. Our parents, Bessie’s and mine, made sure we were in church three, sometimes four times a week.”
Shaw slapped his thigh. “Oh, man! We had Jesus served up every Wednesday night, once a month on Saturday for fellowship supper, and two times on Sunday! We had so much Jesus that, truth be told, we couldn’t wait to grow up and move away. Escape, you might say.”
I can relate, Laynie thought, momentarily drifting back to a time and place far distant from Bessie and Shaw’s kitchen table.
“Then the war started, and I got drafted.”
“He was gone close to four years, but I waited for him, I did.”
Bessie and Shaw beamed at each other.
“Yup. When I came home from the war, Bessie and I got married, had some kids. We worked hard, both of us—me making a living at two jobs, Bessie making a home for us. And because we never had much as children, we were determined to make sure our kids had everything we didn’t—a nice house with a big yard, plenty of food on the table, and new clothes, not hand-me-downs.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” Bessie murmured.
Laynie, caught up in their tale, was surprised out of it. “Hmm? What?”
“We weren’t happy. Not really,” Shaw explained. “Bessie and I, we started quarreling and bickering. And our kids were spoiled, they—”
“They had everything we missed out on handed to them, and they were selfish. Lazy. Ungrateful. Our happy home wasn’t happy a’tall. Turned into a real mess, so—”
“So, we decided to go back to church.”
Laynie shifted with discomfort. Uh-oh.
“Turns out we’d missed the point about church from the get-go,” Bessie declared. “Yes, we’d heard that it was all about Jesus, but we’d been so focused on what we didn’t have at home, that we missed seeing what we didn’t have in our hearts. Took us a few months to get it figured out after we started hearing the Gospel with open ears, but then we let Jesus in.”
“Turned us around, he did,” Shaw said. “For the first time in our lives, we were happy—happy with what we had, happy with what we didn’t have, content no matter what. Our kids saw the difference in us, too.”
“H’ain’t all been roses, Elaine. We wouldn’t want you to think that,” Bessie said, “but Jesus was what we’d been missing all our lives.”
“Right you are, love. Jesus was the key.”
“We’ve had a good life, raised fine kids after all, and had more’n our share of adventures.”
“’Fraid our adventuring days are over, though,” Shaw concluded. “I got to have dialysis twice a week now, and the hours of driving to get where we’d want t’ go adventuring are too hard on my hips.”
“On me, too, Shaw,” Bessie insisted. But Laynie suspected Bessie didn’t want her husband to feel that the curtailment of their “adventures” was all on him.
“I’m sorry to hear about your health problems,” Laynie whispered. She’d been spellbound, reliving their travels and their recollections with them.
What would it be like, to share a lifetime with someone you love? A lifetime to make memories so real that a stranger could see them?
But without the Jesus rubbish.
“Well, now, there’s no need to be sorry,” Bessie said, patting Laynie’s hand. Her multiple chins wagged as she shook her head. “If you buy Daisy from us, we can fix up a few things around here, things that we’ve let go a while. Will be a real blessing for us. And perhaps you need Daisy to do some adventuring of your own, eh?”
“Yes, I’m interested.”
Bessie and Shaw smiled at each other.
“Let me show you Daisy’s inside,” Shaw said. “She’s got a few quirks, I grant you, but I’ve listed them out and you’ll have no problems with her if you follow my instructions.”
He took her out to the driveway and walked her around the motor home. “This is what they called a Class C RV, meaning it’s got the cab-over bed above the driver and passenger seats. Twenty-three feet in length, not too long nor too hard to park or handle on the highway.”
He unlocked the side door and gestured for Laynie to step up and in. He followed behind her.
Laynie found herself staring at yellow, orange, and rusty-brown flower-patterned upholstery on the driver and passenger seats, the bench seats across a tiny table—even the window valances. And a beaded curtain hung between the camper’s living quarters and the cab, completing the hippy, flower-power décor.
She laughed aloud. “This is . . . this is great. I get now why you named her Daisy.”
“Yup. Always bright and cheerful, she is. Reminds us of our youth. Here, let me show you the kitchen.”
Taking but two steps, he pointed out the miniscule sink, three-burner stove, and refrigerator on the opposite wall. He opened cupboards and showed Laynie the dishes and cookware within and the storage space for food.
Then he took her to the back. “Got you a sink, commode, and little shower here, a linen closet, and a full-size bed.”
When they returned to the front, he handed Laynie a notebook. Flipping it open, Laynie found the original owner’s manual, up-to-date vehicle registration, insurance cards, and the notes Shaw had handwritten in meticulous detail.
“I’ve documented all of Daisy’s quirks in this here binder. Maintenance records in the back. ’Course, I’ll remove the registration paperwork when she sells.”
“It’s great, Shaw. I like what I see.”
“Well, we can throw in our kitchen doodads—pots, pans, and dishes—to sweeten the deal. Won’t have need for ’em after Daisy’s gone, so we’d likely just donate ’em to the church parking lot sale, anyway.”
“That would be wonderful.” Laynie realized she’d decided to buy Daisy and that Shaw’s generous offer would be a great help.
Laynie left the Bradshaws half an hour later. Two pecan cinnamon buns, wrapped in tinfoil rested on the seat beside her, next to a bill of sale.
“I’ve just opened an account in Montreal and wired money to it,” she’d told them, “money I cannot draw upon until after the weekend. If it is agreeable to you, I will return midmorning on Monday with a cashier’s check and take Daisy away with me. Will that work?”
The couple shared their secret smile, and both of them nodded.
On her way back to the hotel, she made two stops, the first at a liquor store, the second at a drug store. She handed off the sedan to the hotel’s valet and took her purchases to her room.
It was after one o’clock when she opened one of the two bottles of Chablis she’d bought. It took a while to grind the OTC pills she’d purchased at the drug store into powder, powder she knew from her training would dissolve completely if ground fine enough.
When her preparations were complete, she packed all her belongings into the rolling suitcase and crawled into bed to take a nap.
As she drifted off, she reviewed her plans. It would be late night in Moscow when she knocked on Justin’s door, but however the evening played out, she would be fresh and prepared.
SØREN THORESEN COLLECTED the mail from the big mailbox at the end of their drive. He took the driveway and front porch steps in a few strides, opened the front door and dropped the handful of envelopes, magazines, and newspapers on Kari’s desk in the corner of the living room.
“Hey, Babe! I’m home!”
“Hi! I’m in the kitchen. Lunch is almost ready.”
Shannon and Robbie were in school. Kari was assembling sandwiches for her and Søren’s lunch to go with the soup on the stove. He came up behind her and wrapped his arm about her, nuzzling her neck with his lips.
Kari relaxed into his embrace. “Mmm. That’s nice.”
“Plowed up the north ten acres this morning.”
“Mmm. Okay.”
“I put the mail on your desk.”
“Mmm. Wonderful.”
“And my stomach is empty.”
“Mmm-hmm? Mmm. Sooo nice.”
“Hollow. As in I’m starving here.”
Kari raised her head. “Just like a man to put his stomach ahead of love. Way to spoil the mood, Thoresen.”
They laughed and separated. Søren pulled dishes from the cupboard and set them out while Kari brought their lunch to the table. While they ate, they talked, laughed together, and discussed the family’s upcoming Christmas vacation in New Orleans.
They had been spending the holidays at Kari’s house on Marlow Avenue since she and Søren married. The kids, especially, enjoyed the change of pace and scenery. This year, their trip, with some planning and careful execution, would include Gene and Polly.
“I’m so glad Max can go with us,” Kari mused. “I don’t relish the day when he tells us he has other plans.”
“He has four weeks off before classes recommence in January?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, there you go. Now, I need to get back at it. Thank you for fixing lunch.”
“For you, Søren Thoresen? It’s always my pleasure.”
Kari had her own work to do each day, telecommuting from their home in Nebraska to her company’s offices in New Orleans. Once a month, she made a five-day whirlwind trip down south to meet with her staff in person.
While Søren washed up from lunch, she flipped through the mail he had stacked on her desk. She sorted it efficiently, tossing the junk, setting aside bills, glancing through newspaper headlines. By the time they received the papers, they were always a little stale—RiverBend being off the beaten track as it was. Kari was about to toss the Omaha paper into the “to-be-read” pile when she stopped and stared hard at the grainy photo on the front page under a bold headline,
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?
She pulled the image closer, as if “closer” would make it clearer. She called over her shoulder, “Søren?”
She read the article as fast as she could, then started over.
“Søren? Søren!”
He arrived, pulling on his work gloves. “What is it?”
“That.” She pointed. “That . . .” Kari couldn’t breathe.
“What am I looking at, Babe?”
She shook her head, still staring. “Søren . . .” She stabbed her finger at the picture again.
“Søren, that’s Laynie. That’s my sister!”
