of which she’d ignored. Geoffrey was dead and buried; that was pain enough. Nick O’Hara would only make things worse by asking his unanswerable questions.
“Please, Mrs. Fontaine.”
At last she nodded. With a glance at Abby, she said, “I’ll be all right.”
“Well, you can’t stand around chatting out here. It’ll be pouring in a minute!”
“I can drive her home,” said Nick. At Abby’s dubious look, he smiled. “Really, I’m okay. I’ll take care of her.”
Abby gave Sarah one last hug and kiss. “I’ll call you tonight, sweetheart. Let’s have breakfast in the morning.” Then, with obvious reluctance, she turned and headed toward her car.
“A good friend, I take it,” he said, watching Abby’s retreat.
“We’ve worked together for years.”
“At NIH?”
“Yes. The same lab.”
He glanced up at the sky, which was now dark with storm clouds. A chill had fallen over them. “Your friend’s right. It’ll be pouring in a minute. Come on. My car’s this way.”
Gently he touched her sleeve. She moved ahead mechanically, allowing him to guide her into the front seat of his car. He slid in beside her and pulled his door shut. For a moment they sat in silence. The car was an old Volvo, practical, without frills, a model one chose purely for transportation. It fit him, somehow. A trace of warmth still clung to the interior, and Sarah’s glasses clouded over. Pulling them off, she turned and looked at him and saw that his hair was wet.
“You must be cold,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
The engine roared to life. A blast of air erupted from the heater, gradually warming them as they drove along the winding road from the cemetery. The windshield wiper squeaked back and forth.
“It started out so beautiful this morning,” she said, watching the rain fall.
“Unpredictable. Just like everything else.”
He smoothly turned the car onto the highway bound for D.C. He was a calm driver, with steady hands. The kind who probably never took risks. Savoring the heater’s warmth, Sarah settled back in her seat.
“Why didn’t you return my calls?” he asked.
“It was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I guess I didn’t want to hear any more speculation about Geoffrey. Or about his death.”
“Even if they’re facts?”
“You weren’t giving me facts, Mr. O’Hara. You were guessing.”
He stared ahead grimly at the road. “I’m not guessing anymore, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve got the facts. All I need is a name.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your husband. You said that six months ago you met Geoffrey Fontaine at a coffee shop. He must have swept you clean off your feet. Four months later you were married. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to say this, but Geoffrey Fontaine— the real Geoffrey Fontaine—died forty-two years ago. As an infant.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I don’t understand…”
He didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes on the road as he talked. “The man you married took the name of a dead infant. It’s easy enough to do. You hunt around for the name of a baby who died around the year you were born. Then you get a copy of the birth certificate. With that you apply for a Social Security number, a driver’s license, a marriage license. You become that infant, grown up. A new identity. A new life. With all the records to prove it.”
“But—but how do you know all this?”
“Everything’s on computer these days. From a few cross-checks, I found out that Geoffrey Fontaine never registered for the draft. He never attended school. He never held a bank account—until a year ago, when his name suddenly appeared in a dozen different places.”
The breath went out of her. “Then who was he?” she whispered at last. “Who did I marry?”
“I don’t know,” Nick answered.
“Why? Why would he do it? Why would he start a new life?”
“I can think of lots of reasons. My first thought was that he was wanted for some crime. His thumbprints were on record with the driver’s license bureau, so I had them run through the FBI computer. He’s not on any of their lists.”
“Then he wasn’t a criminal.”
“There’s no proof that he was. Another possibility is that he was in some kind of federal witness program, that he was given a new name for protection. It’s hard for me to check on that. The data are locked up tight. It would, however, give us a motive for his murder.”
“You mean—the people he testified against—they found him.”
“That’s right.”
“But he would have told me about something like that, he would have shared it with me….”
“That’s what makes me think of one more possibility. Maybe you can confirm it.”
“Go on.”
“What if your husband’s new name and new life were just part of his job? He might not have been running from anything. He might have been sent here.”
“You mean he was a spy,” she said softly.
He looked at her and nodded. His eyes were as gray as the storm clouds outside.
“I don’t believe this,” she said. “None of it!”
“It’s real. I assure you.”
“Then why are you telling me? How do you know I’m not an accomplice or something?”
“I think you’re clean, Mrs. Fontaine. I’ve seen your file—”
“Oh. I have a file, too?” she shot back.
“You got security clearance some years ago, remember? For the research you were working on. Naturally a file was generated.”
“Naturally.”
“But it’s not just your file that makes me think you’re clean. It’s my own gut feeling. Now convince me I’m right.”
“How? Should I hook myself up to a polygraph?”
“Start off by telling
