fallen.
“What’s wrong? What is it? Was I hurting you?”
“No.”
Yes.
She had died.
Her heart was pounding. On an intellectual level, she knew that if she had memories of a previous life, then of course she had to have died. How else could she be here now? But in all the time she had dreamed and remembered shadowy, insubstantial fragments of that past life she had never remembered the moment of her death.
Nausea rose at the back of her throat. She pushed free, needing the distance. With shaky fingers she smoothed her skirt down around her thighs. Her mouth felt swollen. She could still taste Bayard; her body was throbbing. But the emotion was somehow entwined with the memory of her death.
She couldn’t say, “I remember you, but not from here, now.”
The phenomenon had stopped, years ago, when she was twelve.
The year Bayard had gone away to boarding school.
Comprehension hit. The answer so simple she wondered she hadn’t seen it before. The dreams had started when she was seven. The year the Bayard family had moved into the big house next door. In that first year, Steve, who lived less than a mile away, and Marc had become inseparable, and Marc Bayard had become a part of the Fischer family. Until he had turned twelve and gone away to boarding school in Baton Rouge.
Ever since then she had been normal. The memories, the visits to specialists, had become a part of her past. She had almost forgotten them, and she had needed to forget.
Now, Bayard had walked back into her life and suddenly she was remembering again. And more sharply, more distinctly.
She dragged her gaze from Bayard’s jaw and the memory of that hot, crazy kiss. His face was shuttered; he probably thought she was insane. She had lost count of the number of times she had considered the possibility herself. There was no way he wouldn’t have heard at least the basic details of her illness. Living in such close proximity, it was a cast-iron certainty that Mae Fischer had shared her worries with Mariel Bayard.
“Sara—” Bayard reached for her hand.
She evaded his grip on the pretext that she needed to retrieve his jacket. She bent and picked up the buttery soft leather, wincing as the cut throbbed. “You’d better have your jacket back.”
She pressed her hand to her side where blood was leaking through the makeshift bandage.
Bayard draped the leather jacket over her shoulders. “You need it more than I do.”
The fleeting pressure of his touch, his clean masculine scent enfolding her, was a reminder of what they had been doing just minutes ago, and how close she had come to more. A part of her still craved him, which was doubly crazy. She stepped away, pointedly avoiding any further contact.
His gaze was remote. “It’s all right, I won’t touch you.”
That’s right, don’t touch me. Don’t come within a mile of me.
It had taken her years to recover from the dreams, the horror that had pushed through into her life. She still had trouble with the night, and sleeping.
She wanted Bayard, but she couldn’t allow him near her again. She couldn’t afford him.
The trip home was awkward. The evening was mild, but she couldn’t get warm despite the jacket and the heater switched on. Half an hour later, Bayard dropped her back at her house. He waited until she made it to the porch and stepped inside the front hall before reversing and heading down the drive.
Cavanaugh.
The stark moment of recognition shivered through her again.
She had remembered Bayard. That fact alone was stunning. If someone from that previous life was going to be in her life now, why wasn’t it someone like her parents or Steve?
She watched until the sweep of Bayard’s headlights disappeared. She didn’t know anyone by the name of Cavanaugh, although she was sure that if she checked the phone book, she would find a long list. Not that she was going to do that. As far as she was concerned the past was the past and it could stay there; she didn’t want it in either her present or her future.
She was Sara Fischer in this life, but in the Second World War she knew with flat certainty that she had been someone else—an English spy called Sara Weiss. Beyond that basic recall, and the blurred memories of dreams, she didn’t have many concrete details. By the age of eight, annoyed by the disruptive effect of Dr. Dolinsky’s tactics, her father had taught her what he had termed “applied amnesia.” In effect, how to dismiss and forget the dreams. For several weeks every time she woke from a dream, her father had instantly distracted her by reading her chapters of a novel until she fell asleep. By the time they had worked their way through the full set of a popular series of children’s mysteries, she had learned the knack of not thinking about the dreams. Without the strong link created by repeatedly recalling the dreams, or talking about them, they had literally dissolved so that, if she thought of them at all, all she remembered was that she had dreamed, not the content.
Her father didn’t know it, and he wouldn’t be happy if she told him, but she had made some enquiries about Sara Weiss, and found that she had existed, the daughter of a German businessman and a Frenchwoman, who had been resident in England. She had died in 1943, although she hadn’t ever been able to find any details about her death.
Finding out that Sara Weiss had existed had been a jolt. Up until that point, the idea that she was remembering actual events had been a purely cerebral reality, with no grounding in fact.
She had conducted a search on the Internet. Seeing the name listed in black and white, the details of a life that uncannily mirrored her own in terms of interests and education, then discovering that Sara Weiss had died while in her early thirties, had shaken her.
Somewhere there would be a grave. Proof of a life lived and lost. A life that still lingered on in her mind.
Accepting that reality was difficult enough. Being confronted with a physical link to that past in the form of Bayard was a complication she didn’t need.
Three
Washington, D.C., Present Day
Two dead, and counting.
Marc Bayard, Assistant Director of Special Projects at National Intelligence, studied the loading zone outside the entrance to the D.C. Morgue as he stepped out of an unmarked departmental car. Agent Matt Bridges flanked him as they walked inside, automatically drifting to Marc’s left and staying a half step behind, covering the firing arcs and Marc’s back while staying out of the way of his right hand.
Bridges wasn’t assigned bodyguard duty, and Marc didn’t normally need the protection. He worked out regularly and he carried weapons. The Glock 19 was nothing exotic, just down-home firepower that was proven and reliable. These days he wasn’t often in the front line. If anyone wanted to take him out, the maneuver was generally an interdepartmental or a political one, but risk was inherent in the job, so he kept his hand in. His choice of backup weapon was a six-inch blade strapped to his ankle. Not many people knew he had the knife or
