her articles, mostly about cycling. He read through her recap of the Tour of Britain, caught up in her depiction of the excitement and tension of a sport he hadn’t thought much about before being assigned to his case. The Bureau had briefed him and his fellow agents on the basics—how races are organized into stages, which could combine circuit races, cross-country treks and individual time trials. He understood the concept of racing teams that worked together to support one or more favorite riders, and had read about the dedication of the men for whom professional racing was their life.
But those facts hadn’t breathed life into the events the way Morgan did in her article. Reading her words, he felt the struggle of the racers to meet the demands of the challenging course, the devotion of the fans who followed the peloton from stage to stage and the resources that went into putting on an event that was popular around the world.
He hesitated over the keys, then typed in another name, one he tried to refrain from searching but always came back to, month after month: Mark Renfro. The familiar links scrolled down the screen: an article Mark had written about the destructive potential of so-called dirty bombs, a piece for a scholarly journal on nuclear fission, a profile of him when he won a prestigious award from the University of Colorado, where he taught and conducted his research.
Farther down the page were articles about his disappearance almost a year before: Top Nuclear Physicist Missing. Professor Mark Renfro Missing, Feared Dead.
Luke read through that article, though he’d long ago memorized the text.
Mark Renfro, professor of nuclear physics at the University of Colorado in Boulder, has been reported missing after failing to return from a hiking trip in Colorado’s remote Weminuche Wilderness area. Professor Renfro set out alone to hike to the top of Wilson Peak on Monday, and has not been seen since a pair of hikers reported passing him on the trail at about noon that day. Renfro was an experienced hiker who had reportedly been struggling with depression since the death of his wife in a car accident six months earlier. One colleague at the university, who wished to remain anonymous, stated he feared Renfro had arranged the hike with the intention of committing suicide.
Luke exited the screen, familiar anger rising up inside him. Mark had not committed suicide. Yes, he’d been devastated by Christy’s death in the accident, but he would never have left their four-year-old daughter, Mindy, alone. Something had happened to keep him from coming back to the girl. Luke was certain his brother was still alive, and he would give anything to bring him back.
He’d driven Mark to the trailhead that day and arranged to meet him back there in two days. Luke’s work schedule had prevented him from accompanying his brother on the hike, but Mark had taken these solo treks before. “I get some of my best ideas out there with no one else around,” he’d said. Far from being depressed, he’d been in good spirits that morning. In the early hours, the sky showing the first faint hint of light, only one other car had been at the trailhead. Luke had scarcely glanced at the two dark figures inside. He wasn’t working, and he didn’t need to clutter his mind with more strangers’ faces.
But what if he had taken the time to memorize those men? Were they the key to finding his brother and he’d missed his chance? He closed his eyes and tried again to picture the scene, but his mind came up blank. All he saw was Mark’s face, smiling, eager to set out. Not the face of a man who was walking to his death.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, aided by a sleeping pill and a half hour of yoga, Morgan was feeling calmer. She headed down to the hotel’s free breakfast buffet, her mind on her plans for the day. In addition to writing several articles for Road Bike Magazine, she’d been hired to blog about each day’s race stage for the popular Cycling Pro website. Today she had an interview with an Italian rider who was one of the top contenders to win the race, then a Skype meeting with one of the UCI officials to get his views on the race. The Union Cycliste Internationale oversaw every aspect of sanctioned modern bicycle road races. In the wake of the bombings that had rocked other races, they had a lot riding on the success of this Colorado event.
Thoughts of the bombings brought her back to Agent Luke Renfro. He obviously knew more about the attacks than he was telling her. Maybe she needed to find him and pump him for more information. He’d said he was going to be around for the race. Maybe she’d spot him tonight, at the banquet to kick off the race festivities, before the racers headed out to the starting point in Aspen tomorrow. Under the guise of making small talk, she could question him, and maybe get a better feel for whether or not he was as dangerous to her peace of mind as he’d felt last night.
She found a table at the back of the breakfast room and was slathering strawberry jam onto a piece of wheat toast when Luke Renfro pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
Her initial pleasure at seeing him again quickly gave way to nervousness. Her heart fluttered and she had to set aside the knife before she dropped it. “What are you doing here?” she asked, avoiding meeting his gaze.
He was dressed more casually today, in a blue pinstriped oxford shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms lightly dusted with brown hair. He smelled of shaving cream—a clean, masculine scent that made her stomach flutter in rhythm with her racing heart.
“I had some more questions for you.” He unfolded a napkin across his lap, then picked up the mug of coffee he’d brought with him.
“You won’t tell me anything, so why should I share anything with you?”
“After I got back to the hotel last night, I went online and read some of your work. You’re very good. I’m curious why you’re a freelancer, and not on staff with one of the top cycling publications.”
She told herself it wasn’t creepy that he’d looked her up online. Everyone did it these days, whether they were checking out potential job applicants or prospective dates. So why did it make her so nervous that this particular man had been checking out her background? “Those staff jobs aren’t necessarily easy to come by,” she said. She sipped her coffee, her hands steady enough to drink it without spilling. “Anyway, I prefer the flexibility of freelancing.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday,” he said. “What, exactly, did I say that made you so afraid?”
“I wasn’t afraid.” Her voice squeaked on the last word and she looked away.
“You may be an excellent writer, but you’re a lousy liar.”
When she dared to look at him again he was smiling. His lack of hostility soothed her a little, and in that moment she made a decision. She pulled out her phone and thumbed to the picture library. She turned the screen toward him. “Is this the man you’re looking for?” Her voice quavered, and her heart pounded painfully, drowning out the clatter of cutlery and chatter of the diners around them.
She’d taken the photograph of Scott almost a year ago, on a hike in the Texas hill country, near their home in Austin. He stood with his slender frame leaning against a bent pine tree, a breeze blowing his blond hair across his face. He’d refused to smile for the camera or even to look directly at her. At the time, she’d thought he was merely being stubborn and moody; now she recognized the first signs that he wasn’t himself, that what he always referred to as “his demons” were getting the best of him.
“Who is this?” Agent Renfro asked, his expression giving away nothing.
“First, tell me if he’s your bombing suspect.” Even saying the words made her feel a little faint, but better to know the truth than to keep wondering.
“No.”
