Frozen Memories

Though he hated relying on Ramirez, he needed help. He leaned against the porch banister and peered toward the church next door. Though the storm was pretty much over, a blanket of snow lay heavy on the unplowed road and the parking lot. Night was starting to fall, but it wasn’t totally dark. The glow of starlight filtered through the clouds.

“Ramirez, I want you to drive here. Bring one other man.” Spence gave directional driving instructions and used Pastor Clarence’s address for Ramirez’s GPS. “Do you understand?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Pastor Clarence came onto the porch. In spite of his age and potbelly, he moved with the stealth of a hunter. “I can help you find that van at the cabin,” he said. “Angelica mentioned a green door. I know exactly where it is.”

The old man wore a red knit cap, again making Spence think of Santa. But the pastor’s red gloves were clutched around his rifle instead of a bag of toys. The parka that was belted around his ample midsection was black.

“I’m getting picked up,” Spence said. “Besides, you need to be here when the ambulance arrives.”

“The sheriff can figure it out. He’s a real crackerjack.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s not winning any prizes as a first responder.” Spence had to consider the possibility that sweet old Clarence hadn’t, in fact, contacted the emergency dispatcher. Santa might be lying. “How long ago did you make that call?”

“A while.” He tugged on his beard. “Something’s fishy. What was your phone call about?”

“There’s a dangerous armed man on the loose. I’ll get Angelica to the hospital. An officer from SWAT will be left behind to protect you and your wife.”

“I can take care of my family.” Clarence puffed out his chest. “I don’t want some SWAT punk hanging around.”

“You need protection.” Spence was fairly sure the old man was hiding something but didn’t have time to dig for the truth. “The punk stays, and that’s an order.”

“Hah!” The pastor threw back his head. “I’ve been retired for fourteen years. I don’t obey orders unless they come from my sovereign.”

“Who’s that?”

Clarence pointed skyward. “My Lord in Heaven.”

Spence gazed across the snowy crossroads toward the dark, impenetrable forest. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the simple cross above the church’s entryway. Clarence was a man of God, but that didn’t mean he was without sin. “What does your Lord say about lying?”

“You know the Commandments.”

“Do you?”

The pastor fidgeted and sputtered, and Spence could see the truth struggling to get out. If he stood here quietly and waited, Clarence would confess whatever he’d been holding back.

The pearly white landscape spread before him, so ethereal and beautiful that he almost ran inside and grabbed Angelica to show her. Better that he didn’t; she might not be enthusiastic about the wonders of snow after being nearly frostbitten to death. The only marks in the unbroken snow were his tracks and Angelica’s. Hers were almost erased by the drifting wind.

At the edge of the forest, he saw movement. It could be deer or elk or his own imagination, but he didn’t think so. He took his night vision goggles from a parka pocket and held them to his eyes.

He saw a man, staggering from the forest. He disappeared behind the church. A moment passed while Spence waited anxiously for the man to reappear.

Beside him, the pastor cleared his throat. “There’s something I ought to tell you, Spence.”

“Not now.”

“It’s important.”

A light shone through an arched window at the far end of the church. The man—the fugitive—had found sanctuary. Or so he thought.

Spence grabbed the pastor’s arm and spun him around. “I saw the fugitive, the man who escaped custody. He’s in the church. When the agent and the SWAT officer get here, send them in that direction.”

“What about me? I could be your backup.”

“Stay here. Protect Trudy and Angelica.”

Spence pivoted and leaped from the porch. His boots hit the snow, and he started running toward the church. The new-fallen snow slipped over the top of his boots and soaked his jeans. He ducked behind a clump of aspen and inhaled a deep, frigid breath. At this elevation, oxygen was scarce.

Between the trees where he was hiding and the front entryway to the church, there wasn’t much cover. If he stood upright and ran, he’d be an obvious target. But there wasn’t time to dash around to the road and come up from the front.

He kept his repeating rifle slung across his back, choosing instead to arm himself with a handgun for easier mobility. His new Glock 17 fit neatly into his hand. Through the specially woven, nonslip fabric of his glove, he hardly felt the cold of the Glock’s handgrip. Keeping his head down and shoulders bent, he tried to make himself small as he rushed toward the front entryway under the cross.

Light continued to shine through the window in the rear part of the building. Was the fugitive standing there, looking out and taking aim? This guy wouldn’t be caught napping; he’d managed to get out of his handcuffs and evade a team of trained officers. Ramirez had called him slick, and Spence agreed.

The preferred method for taking a suspect was a straight-on assault, using the element of surprise, yelling to disorient the suspect and being ready to shoot first. But Spence wasn’t looking for a lethal shoot-out. This fugitive was low on the totem pole. His greatest value was the information he could give. Somehow, Spence needed to sneak into the church and take the fugitive into custody.

At the entryway, he leaned against the polished oak door with a small diamond-shaped stained glass window at eye level. The church building was a rectangle, with stained glass windows on either side. Spence wasn’t sure what he’d find inside. Ruefully, he realized, it would have been useful to have the pastor with him to give him the layout.

The door on the right had a keyed knob. Spence gave it a twist and found it locked. No problem, he’d been picking locks since he was a trouble-making teenager. This was the first time he’d done it at a church.

After turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, slid inside and closed it. The entryway was in darkness. No windows here. In the nave, where the congregation sat, the stained glass windows on either side allowed moonlight to fall across several rows of wooden pews. He edged his way down the wall, expecting—at any moment—to hear the blast of a repeating rifle.

No sound came. And Spence didn’t see the fugitive. At the front of the church, there was light from a door at the far right side of the sanctuary. In the entryway, Spence found himself at the foot of a narrow, wooden staircase that hugged the wall. He climbed to a choir loft. Three rows of pews and an upright organ were faintly visible. Quiet as a cat, he crept down to the carved railing, where he squatted and waited.

It was a pretty little church, simple and clean, with a high peaked ceiling and open beams. The carpet in the sanctuary was slate blue and the altar was carved from dark wood. From outside, a fierce wind buffeted the stained glass windows, causing the old structure to creak and moan. Not a bad thing, he figured. Those noises had masked the sound of his entry, allowing him to scoot across the back and up the stairs without the fugitive noticing.

A certain amount of skill was required to move with stealth and purpose. But Spence also believed in luck. Being in a church, he wondered if he should shoot off a prayer. He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t make it to church every week, nor did he quote from the Bible or other sacred texts. But he was spiritual. He believed in a higher power. When he was growing up, two men were instrumental in helping him pull his life together. One was a pastor, the other a priest. Spence had never done a whole lot of praying, but he felt like those church people had done a lot of praying to make sure he stayed on the right path.

A telephone rang. Spence heard the mumbled reply. Was the voice coming all the way from that back room? If so, the acoustics in here were incredible.

The light from the back room went out. The phone call must have tipped off the fugitive. But how? Who made that call? Behind the shadows of the pulpit and a standing candleholder, Spence saw a man dodge across the sanctuary, slam into the side of the altar and then duck behind it.

From his superior vantage point in the choir loft, Spence peered over the banister rail. The element of surprise was gone, but he could still give this guy a chance to make it easy on himself.

“FBI,” Spence called out. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just put down your weapon and step out from behind the altar.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I need to take you into custody.”

The fugitive laughed. “That doesn’t work for me.”

Spence heard a voice from behind his back. “Sorry, Spencer. Doesn’t work for me, either.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Pastor Clarence, aka Bad Santa, aiming his rifle at a lethal point between his shoulder blades. The old man was working with the bad guys. “This explains a lot.”

“What?” Clarence asked.

“You never called 911.”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing that the van hadn’t ended up in this area by coincidence. Tell me, Pastor, do you own the cabin with the green door?”

“I do, and three others in this area.” He gestured with the rifle. “I want you to stand up real slow and careful.”

Seriously? Had Bad Santa forgotten how well armed Spence was? Did this old guy think he could take down a federal agent in his prime?

“Let me remind you,” Clarence said, “I’ve got the drop on you, and it’d be easier to swab up the blood from your dead body than to sand bullet holes out of the pews.”

“Were you even a chaplain?”

“I’m retired, but I served.”

Something must have happened to turn the old man into a traitor. In other circumstances, Spence might have been willing to delve and probe and put together motivations and answers. But he wasn’t in a forgiving mood. This investigation needed to be over so he could return to Virginia with Angelica and repair her memory.

Lowering his rifle and sliding his handgun onto the pew, Spence turned sideways in the choir loft so he’d present a narrow silhouette to the man hiding behind the altar. “Tell me, Clarence, if I hadn’t come along, what would you have done to Angelica?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a loose end. It doesn’t seem smart to leave her running free. Would you have shot her?”

Clarence huffed as he adjusted the barrel on his rifle. “You’ve got this wrong. Just give me a minute and let me explain.”

A disembodied voice rose from the altar. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

How do you know what I think? Spence had never been known for his calm, patient attitude, and he sure as hell didn’t need advice from some dumber-than-dirt thug. It was time to take control of this situation.

Disarming Clarence would be a piece of cake; the old guy wasn’t exactly in peak condition. The tricky part would be to avoid getting shot by the armed thug. Spence coiled his long legs beneath him. With one well-placed leap, he went into the aisle between the pews. With a pivot, he launched himself off the organ and smashed into the pastor’s broad chest.

Clarence went down with a thud. Flat on his back, he didn’t bother struggling. As Spence fastened his wrists with a zip tie, Clarence said, “There should have been an easier way to do this.”

“Explain.”

“First, an introduction,” Clarence said. “The dark and scary character who escaped the SWAT team is my nephew, Trevor MacArthur. Help us out, Trev. Turn on the sanctuary lights.”

The shadowy figure that had been lurking behind the altar went to the edge of the sanctuary and flipped a couple of switches. Lights blazed in the nave.

A young man with curly brown hair and a beard strolled to the front of the sanctuary. “There’s one more thing you ought to know, Spence.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m FBI, working undercover.”

Chapter Five

Trust no one. Her father had always advised her to be suspicious and, as always, Dad was right. Angelica had been fool enough to accept the pastor and Trudy as the kindly, elderly couple they appeared to be. So wrong!

Frozen in place, she stood in front of the dresser in the upstairs bedroom of the cabin, where every wall was hung with photos and every flat surface held knickknacks. Her gaze stuck on a five-by-seven photograph of a young man in a football uniform. His face and his dark, floppy hair appeared in many other photos scattered around the room.

At first glance, he’d looked familiar, and she wondered if they’d gone to the same school. She’d grown up in this area, and he might be somebody she’d met before or had known. Slowly, she’d circled the room, prowling, taking time to study each photo as the man aged from a skinny kid in baggy shorts to full adulthood. His grin was mischievous, with a twist on the left side. A tiny scar bisected his left eyebrow.

Like a lightbulb snapping to life, her inability to remember vanished. The darkness cleared. She knew him.

This young man was one of the thugs in the van—a kidnapper, a traitor or something worse.

Trudy called out from downstairs. “How are you doing, Angelica? Can I help?”

She moved to the top of the staircase. Her throat was still raw and her voice hoarse. “Changing clothes. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Would you like more lemon tea?”

“No, thank you,” she said politely.

Her thoughts were far less civil. Dear, sweet Trudy might decide to poison her with lemon-scented bleach. Though it seemed impossible that the kindly choir director was involved with thugs and traitors, the dozens of photos were proof. Trudy knew this man, knew him well.

Unfortunately, there was no chance that Angelica was mistaken in her identification. The memory was crystal clear. His face—with the lopsided grin—had peered down at her several times when she was curled up on the floor in the back of the van. He’d rubbed her upper arm as though he wanted to make her warm, but he’d been the one who insisted to the others that they leave her outside, alone in the van, to possibly freeze.

She needed to tell Spence, and he’d have to arrest these two lovely people who had saved her life. Though Angelica had been trained as an agent, she wouldn’t be cool about taking Clarence and Trudy into custody.

Fully dressed and wearing her warm boots, she descended the staircase to find Trudy nestled into a corner of the sofa. Though Angelica had said no, two mugs of tea and a small plate of fragrant banana bread rested on the coffee table.

“Where’s Spence?” Angelica asked.

“He and Clarence went running off to chase a bad guy.”

Angelica gasped. The bad guy was very likely the man pictured in Trudy’s bedroom. And Spence was probably counting on Clarence the Traitor for backup. “I need to find them, right away.”

“You shouldn’t go out,” Trudy said. “We’ve barely got you warmed up. The last thing you need is to go out in the cold again.”

The very thought of snow sent a raft of shivers down her spine, but she couldn’t abandon a man she cared about to an uncertain fate. And she’d never been a quitter. This job was important. “I need a gun.”

“The men took all of their weapons.”

Angelica stalked into the kitchen. Yanking a butcher knife from the chopping block seemed ridiculous. If she managed to get close enough for a knife attack, the bad guy would likely overpower her.

But she couldn’t just sit here. At the very least, she needed to warn Spence. Back in the front room, she zipped her Patagonia jacket that appeared lightweight but was surprisingly toasty. “I’m going.”

“I’m not strong enough to stop you.” Trudy folded her skinny arms below her breasts and sank back on the sofa. “But I wish you’d wait.”

“Until the pastor drags Spence back here by his heels like a field-dressed deer?”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“I think you know.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

The truth. She pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out accusations. Attacking Trudy wasn’t going to do any good. She needed to help Spence.

On the front porch, the cold sliced through her like a blade, and she was tempted to dash back inside to wait. But the danger to Spence might be real. And she cared about him. More than friends, they had a relationship. If she closed her eyes, even for a few seconds, she felt the imprint of his embrace as he held her against his muscular chest. She remembered the deep rumble of his voice and the wood-and-leather scent of his favorite aftershave.

Looking down from the porch, she saw tracks leading from the front of the cabin toward the church next door, where lights blazed through the stained glass windows. Was she too late? Fearing the pastor and the thug had ganged up on Spence, she leaped from the porch. The snow was as deep as her knees, and she hated getting her jeans wet. But she had to warn Spence.

Slogging clumsily forward through the crisp, icy layers that glistened in the moonlight, she made her way across the front of the house to a clump of aspens and evergreens. The snow-covered boughs provided shelter from the brisk wind that swirled the icy flakes like a kaleidoscope. When she inhaled a deep breath, her lungs wheezed. She exhaled a gush of vapor. The pinpricks of frostbite returned to her toes and fingers.

She saw three men walking from the church. The pastor and Spence flanked a tall guy with floppy hair, the thug. Either he’d fooled Spence into thinking he wasn’t a danger or Spence was on his side. Could he be working with the bad guys? Trust no one. That mantra, that perfect bit of wisdom from her dad, might also apply to Spence.

He’d said they were partners. But did she have proof? Her sensory memories described an exquisite sexual relationship with Spence. But that didn’t make him trustworthy. If she’d been able to recall with utter precision, Angelica was certain that she’d have examples of misunderstandings and mistakes. Every woman did.

Whether Spence was a sleazebag or the straight-and-true man of her dreams, he had come for her. She owed him a rescue. But how? This would have been so much easier if she’d had a gun.

She stepped out from behind the trees and waved her arms over her head. When she called out to Spence, her voice was nothing but a feral growl. When she tried to amp up the volume, her efforts vanished on the wind.

But somehow he heard the harsh sounds she was making. And he responded. Breaking into a jog, he covered the distance between them so quickly that she had to peer around him to see what the pastor and the thug were doing. Just standing there? Neither of the men moved more than a step.

Spence caught hold of her upper arms. “What are you doing outside?”

No time for talk. “Give me your gun.”

“I don’t think so.”

“The guy you’re with.” She choked out the words. “And the pastor, too. They’re traitors. Lock them up.”

“I can explain.”

“He left me to die.” How could she make him understand? “He was one of the men in the van.”

“I’ll explain everything. For now, you’ve got to trust me.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. Her instinct was strong. She didn’t owe an automatic bond of trust to him or anyone else.

“His name is Trevor,” Spence said. “He’s FBI, working undercover. I talked to his handler in Quantico.”

“What?”

“Trevor made sure you were left alone in the van so you could escape. He didn’t know what their next orders would be, and he wanted you out of danger.”

She didn’t understand. “Is he part of Trudy’s family?”

“Her nephew.”

“Why was he with those other men?”

“Undercover,” Spence said. “He’s working undercover.”

He motioned for Clarence and the other man to join them.

Still unsure about whether she should accept this Trevor person as an undercover agent, she narrowed her gaze. It seemed awfully coincidental that Trevor and his bad guy cronies had landed near Aunt Trudy’s house.

Trevor reached toward her for a handshake. “I’m sorry, Angelica.”

She held back, not ready to be friends, not willing to let bygones be. She forced her voice to an almost-normal level. “Why did you choose the cabin with the green door?”

“You’re going to make me work for this apology.” He flashed the lopsided grin that some people might call charming. “Can we walk toward the house while I talk?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Okay, here’s what happened. I was contacted by one of the bad guys, Lex Heller.”

“A computer programmer,” Spence said. “He’s on our short list of suspects.”

“He wanted me and the three other guys—Larry, Moe and Curly Joe—to take care of you.” He flashed another smile, clearly his best feature. “When I say ‘take care of,’ I mean exactly that. We were instructed to keep you from harm. To hold you in a safe place until he contacted us.”

So far, he was making sense. “Continue.”

“I could see you were waking up and wanted you to have a fair chance to escape. So, I suggested the cabin near Uncle Clarence’s place, and I called him to warn him.”

“Which is why I never called 911,” Clarence said. “I couldn’t very well have the sheriff show up and take Trevor into custody.”

“You lied to me,” she said.

“And I’m sorry.”

“What if I’d been more seriously injured?” she asked.

“I would have called an ambulance. I’d never put your life at risk,” Clarence said. His blue eyes were intense. His beard puckered around his mouth. “You believe me, don’t you?”

She did. “You’re not a bad person, Pastor. And I understand why you didn’t want to betray your nephew.”

“Am I forgiven?” Trevor asked.

She grabbed his glove and gave a firm shake. “For now.”

* * *

SPENCE SCOOPED ANGELICA off her feet and started to carry her toward the cabin. He liked her nearness, the intimacy and the way she felt in his arms. She was firm but not hard. No six-pack abs. No buns of steel. Her body had a feminine softness, a gift of nature that could never be achieved in a gym.

“Put me down.” She lightly punched him on the chin. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keeping you from getting your feet wet.”

She stuck her legs straight out. “I have my good boots, thanks to you.”

“We’re almost there.” He strode forward toward the cabin. Nuzzling her earlobe, he whispered, “I’m just trying to pay you back.”

“I missed something.” Her lips were inches from his. Her poor, tired eyes were bloodshot. Her skin was reddened and chapped. But she was still beautiful. She croaked, “You owe me?”

“In spite of frostbite, you charged out into the cold to save me.”

“I should have been armed.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.”

“Why?”

“If you’d gotten your paws on a gun, Trevor would have paid the consequences.”

“Not if he followed my orders.”

She didn’t look anywhere near as dangerous as she actually was. Angelica qualified as a sharpshooter in pistol and in rifle, which meant her accuracy was over 90 percent. Her hand-to-hand combat skills weren’t as good, and Spence was grateful for that. He didn’t have to endure a Vulcan death grip every time she got riled.

As they approached the porch at the front of the cabin, she said, “It’s hard for me to be authoritative when you’re carrying me, but I have a few demands.”

He climbed onto the porch and allowed her legs to swing down. “Shoot.”

“Whenever possible, I need to be carrying a weapon.”

He agreed. “If you’d been armed last night, do you think you could have gotten away from the kidnappers?”

“Don’t know,” she muttered. “Can’t remember what happened.”

“I’m with you on this. We’ll have to figure out some way for both of us to carry firearms while we’re inside the NORAD complex. It’s a weapons-free zone.”