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  “Jessie hasn’t got caller ID on that phone,” Owen said. “I’ll get it. And put a recording device on it. In the hope that Mimi—if it’s her—calls again. I’ve already called about a security system.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she countered. “I can take care of myself—I always have.”

  “I promised your grandmother,” he repeated.

  Then he startled her by reaching out and gently straightening the collar of her blouse, his fingers lingering as if he was reluctant to do such a thing, and even more reluctant not to.

  Eden’s breath stopped, seemingly stuck in her throat, and warning rippled her nerves. But she did not tell him not to touch her, and she did not move away from him.

  She gazed up into his unwavering blue eyes and realized, Damn, he wants me. And I want him. This is a complication I don’t need. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  ALSO BY BETHANY CAMPBELL

  See How They Run

  Don’t Talk to Strangers

  HEAR NO EVIL

  A Bantam Book / November 1998

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Bethany Campbell.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79863-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  To Dan, with love, as always

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  About the Author

  If you can look into the seeds of time

  And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  ONE

  THE MIAMI AIRPORT, SHE’D ALWAYS THOUGHT, LOOKED AS if it had been designed by Alfred Hitchcock.

  It was full of eerie angles and curves that led the eyes astray and set emotions on knifelike edge.

  She had always thought so, and to remember it now, doing what she must, seemed both frivolous and macabre.

  The hell with it, she told herself silently. You wanted to do this. You said you could do this.

  Taking a deep breath, she hoisted the shoulder strap of her leather duffel into place and walked more quickly.

  She was a slim woman, wearing no makeup, and her most striking feature was her brown hair, straight and gleaming, cut to shoulder length. Behind slightly tinted glasses, her eyes were brown and serious. She wore baggy silk slacks of navy blue and a lightweight tan jacket. She glanced at her watch. It was twenty-five minutes until noon.

  Her destination, the Nassau-Air baggage check-in counter, was located in one of the airport’s more peculiar corners, and she had nearly reached it.

  She turned right and was startled, as always, at how abruptly this lobby loomed into view. Instead of offering an air of spaciousness, it seemed choked and awry.

  Directly in her path stood a dark metal structure the size and shape of a burial vault. It was a large vending machine, set at a skewed angle, and it blocked her path.

  Beyond the vaultlike machine, a strip of restaurants and bars, bright with neon, veered down a corridor to the left. To the right zagged a long row of check-in counters with names like Gulfstream, Paradise Island Airways, AeroJamaica.

  She headed for the farthest cubicle, with its blue and orange Nassau-Air logo. Her heart pounded, but her stride was steady and her hands did not shake. She had taken four milligrams of Xanax, which was eight times her normal dose. She felt at once an intense fear and a godlike detachment.

  Drace said there was the possibility that the bomb could go off accidentally at any time; she tried not to think of this. It was like looking down from a dangerous height and paralyzing oneself with terror.

  What if it goes off? she thought bitterly. My troubles would be over, wouldn’t they?

  Yes. But the job would not be done. Do the job.

  The round-faced Hispanic man at the Nassau-Air counter spoke poor English, seemed bored, and as he checked her passport, his stomach gave a loud growl.

  “Anna Granger,” her passport said, “Duluth, Minnesota.” The photograph showed her unsmiling, her glasses sitting crookedly on her nose.

  Her name was not Anna Granger nor had she ever been in Duluth, Minnesota. Drace had arranged for the passport. Drace had arranged everything. She tried not to think of what was in the leather duffel as the clerk tagged it. She tried not to wince as he threw it unceremoniously on the floor behind him.

  I could die right now, she thought. So could he. I won’t think about it. La, la, la.

  “The plane’s on time?” she asked, nodding at the flight announcement board.

  Nassau-Air Flight 217 was to depart at one-thirty. More than an hour away.

  “Won’t be boarding till one-twenty,” he said, hardly glancing up from his computer screen. He squinted at it with a scholarly air, then, at last, handed her a boarding pass. “All set.”

  “I’ve got time to grab a bite of lunch?” she asked brightly.

  “What?” He frowned.

  “I have time?” she asked. “To go to a restaurant?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. To her ears, it sounded as if he said “Oh, jes.”

  Don’t talk any more than you have to, Drace had warned, so she smiled stiffly, adjusted the strap of her oversized handbag, and turned from the counter.

  Her knees felt weak and insubstantial, like two bubbles floating beneath her, magically bearing her away. Her head was light, her stomach hollow.

  “You’re sure you can do this?” Drace had asked. She had seen something like reluctance in his beautiful blue eyes. She’d seen doubt.

  “Yes,” she’d said. “I’m sure.”

  Now she made her way to the nearest women’s rest room. She was grateful to see no maintenance woman. She locked herself into the toilet stall farthest from the entrance and hung her big handbag on the hook inside the door. She took off her glasses, put them inside the purse, and took out the case for her contact lenses.

  She removed one colored lens, then the other. “Don’t it make my brown eyes blue,” she said under her breath.

  She snapped the case shut, put it away. As she pulled off the brown wig, she thought of flushing it down the toilet.

  But no, Drace had told her not to get rid of anything in Miami. She thrust the wig into a plastic bag and stowed it, too, in the handbag. From the coin purse in her wallet, she took a ring and put it on the third finger of her left hand. It was silver, set with a small greenish turquoise.

  She drew out her makeup kit and did her face. She’d always
been skilled at makeup, and the transformation took barely five minutes. Foundation, eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, mascara, powder, blusher, lipstick. She worked using only her compact mirror, but her movements were quick and sure.

  She pulled off the shapeless silk slacks and tucked them too into the bag. Beneath them she’d worn sky-blue leggings, skintight. She slipped off her tan jacket, turned it inside out, and put it on again. It was now sky-blue and matched the leggings.

  She zipped shut the handbag, slid its strap over her shoulder, and opened the door of the stall. She moved to the bank of sinks and washed her hands, examining her image in the mirror. She was a short-haired blonde now, with a Dutch bob and eyes as blue as her jacket.

  She studied her makeup critically, the subtle blue eye shadow, the glossy red of her lips. Not perfect, but it would do. She ran a brush through her hair.

  When she left the rest room, she headed for the moving walkways that sped passengers from one concourse to another. She traveled until she reached the concourse farthest from Nassau-Air. She went through the security check and quickly made her way to Gate E16.

  She arrived at E16 with time to spare and checked in for Flight 458 to Dallas. “Boarding in about thirty-five minutes,” said the dark man at the desk.

  She nodded. She walked to the nearest pay phone and dialed the Nassau-Air desk. “Is Flight 217 on time?”

  “Is right on schedule,” said the Hispanic clerk, still sounding bored.

  She hung up, went into a neighboring shop, and bought a copy of Vogue magazine. She’d once loved Vogue and wondered if it would give comfort to her now.

  She returned to her gate and sat in one of the plastic chairs. She drew her gold pillbox from her handbag. She took out two more tablets of Xanax and swallowed them dry, not bothering to find a water fountain. She pretended to read the magazine, and she waited.

  Five minutes before boarding time, she rose and phoned the Nassau-Air desk again, asking if Flight 217 was still on schedule. The clerk said yes. Again it sounded to her as if he said “Jes.”

  She returned to her departure gate just as the public-address system announced that the Dallas flight was boarding. She waited until her seat row was announced, then made her way through the boarding corridor with a deceptively light step.

  She was traveling coach class and found her seat on the aisle, next to a priest with a clerical collar. The priest gave her a start, and she wondered if his presence was some sort of omen. He looked into her eyes as if it were.

  I’m beyond omens, she thought fatalistically. She nodded to him as she sat. La, la, la.

  The priest was a heavy man with thin hair and a nose full of broken veins. He held a rosary in one hand. “God has to be my copilot. I don’t do well flying on my own.”

  She smiled and fastened her seat belt. She glanced at her watch with seeming nonchalance. It was one thirty-two. Nassau-Air Flight 217 should be taxiing down the runway now, speeding for takeoff.

  Her mouth was bone dry, dry as the mouth of a skeleton. Mentally she counted to sixty while beside her the priest seemed to be silently saying his rosary. She thought, Pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death. She did not know how she knew these words. She was not Catholic.

  She took a deep breath and stared at the inflight phone on the back of the seat before her. She opened her purse and withdrew the credit card Drace had provided. She put the card into the slot next to the phone, which released the receiver.

  “You’re making a call?” the priest said, as if she were about to perform a miracle.

  “I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to my brother,” she said. “He’ll be surprised when I phone from here.”

  “Will wonders never cease?” the priest marveled and watched with interest as she punched in the number she had memorized. For a split second, she wondered if she wanted the plan to work.

  Yes, she thought. Let it work. Let it work. She listened and waited.

  The leather duffel bag should be aboard the Nassau-Air flight now, and the small plane should be airborne, just barely. Within the duffel bag was a brand-new cellular phone, a blasting cap wired to its ringer terminals.

  When the cellular phone rang, the voltage to the terminals would set off the cap and detonate an explosive charge powerful enough to blow Flight 217 to bits, turning it into a giant peony of flame.

  If everything went as planned, she would hear only silence from the phone. No ring, only silence.

  There was no ring at the other end of the phone.

  The priest watched her with interest. In her mind, she heard a ghostly echo, as if from a detonation far away. She wondered if she would hear this echo for the rest of her life.

  Her hand steady, she put the phone back in place.

  “Nobody home?” the priest asked.

  “Nobody home,” she said and smiled. She leaned back in her seat.

  Now I’ve murdered, she thought numbly.

  She imagined calling Drace from a pay phone in Dallas, although such a thing was forbidden to her. How many did I kill? she would ask him if she could.

  She imagined him saying, Everybody. All of them. But it was, she told herself, only a small plane. A very small plane, after all.

  She felt oddly detached. Her head buzzed. I am damned, she thought. La, la, la.

  She opened the copy of Vogue.

  Eden Storey was a tall, slender woman of thirty-three who had an unusual, but highly marketable, talent.

  She had a skilled, versatile voice that could make her sound like a crone, a seductress, an ingenue, or a child. Although neither her name nor face were famous, most of the public had heard her voice—on radio, television, children’s recordings, even in films.

  She worked steadily and loved her small town house on the edge of Brentwood. Her life was simple, uncluttered, and it satisfied her.

  Today bright California sunshine fell through the glass patio doors of her living room, but Eden didn’t notice. She was lost in imaginary snow.

  She sat curled up barefoot on her couch. Loose pages of the script and sheet music of The Snow Queen lay scattered around her. Frowning in concentration, she pored over the lyrics of “Song of the Northern Lights.”

  The animation artists would endow the heroine, Gretta, with a face and body; they would draw her fantastical adventures. But it was Eden who would give her a voice.

  Gathering up the scattered pages, she rose from the couch. The sunlight glittered on her short brown hair, which was streaked with gold. Her face was too thin for true beauty, but it was an arresting face, full of character. Her eyebrows had an arch that gave her a natural air of skeptical amusement.

  She wore faded jeans and a simple shirt of white cotton. Her only jewelry was a pair of diamond ear studs that she had bought for herself.

  She tried a few scales, glad that no one was home in the town house next door; she could sing as much and as loudly as she liked. In a voice that she made innocent yet yearning, she began Gretta’s theme song:

  Roses will grow again,

  Winter won’t last—

  The telephone’s discordant ring struck through the melody like a knife, stabbing once, then twice.

  She tucked the script under her arm and picked up the receiver. She was certain the caller was her friend Sandy Fogleman, phoning to tell how her audition had gone. Sandy had promised to call at noon, and it was six minutes past.

  “Hi,” Eden said cheerfully. “How’d it go?”

  To her surprise a man replied, a man with a distinctly Southwestern accent.

  He said, “Miss Storey, you probably don’t remember me. This is Owen Charteris from Endor, Arkansas.”

  Owen Charteris. She stiffened. The name jogged unpleasant memories. Years ago, in what now seemed like another universe, he’d been a figure of dazzling privilege to her, a handsome golden boy from a very “good” family—unlike hers. Why in God’s name would he call her?

  Charteris said, “I’m calling about your grandmother.”
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  Eden’s thoughts skidded into a wild spin. My grandmother? What’s he got to do with my grandmother?

  “I’m sorry,” Charteris said. “She’s had an accident. A fall. She’s in the hospital. Here in Endor.”

  Shock flooded her in an icy wave. “An accident? How—bad?”

  Once again Charteris said he was sorry, but no emotion seemed to touch his cool drawl. “She has a broken leg and some cuts. She fell down her front stairs, it was a kind of fainting spell. Brought on by your sister. Nobody knows exactly where your sister is—”

  He paused. Numbed, Eden stared at the sunshine merrily spilling its gold across the white carpet.

  Why was he talking about Mimi? Of course, nobody knew exactly where Mimi was. Nobody had known for years.

  Eden communicated little with her grandmother and not at all with Mimi. Yet the thought of Jessie’s accident shocked and bewildered her. Jessie had always seemed immortal to Eden, as indestructible and permanently set in place as the Great Wall of China.

  “We need to find your sister,” said Owen Charteris. “It’s imperative.”

  My God, Eden thought, Jessie’s hurt so bad she’s dying, and they want to get in touch with Mimi. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” Eden stammered. “The last I heard she was in Michigan. But she and my grandmother—”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t want to tell Owen Charteris about Mimi’s everlasting broken promises and how they had split the family.

  “Miss Storey?” he said. “Are you all right?”

  Eden closed her eyes, rubbed her hand across the lids. Tension throbbed in her temples, and her body was tight with conflict.

  “Is Jessie dying?” she asked. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “No. Not at all. Her condition is good.”

  Eden caught her breath and held it, her emotions too complex to sort.

  Charteris rode on over her silence, and vaguely she realized she disliked his voice. It was too calm. “Your grandmother wants you to please come home,” he said. “Those are her own words. She said she needs you.”