style="font-size:15px;"> “So now you’re trying to do the impossible.”
“I’m the best—or one of the best—nuclear physicists in the country.” He raised his voice for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in. “The organization supplies me with anything I need, from high-grade uranium ore to the most sophisticated equipment. It’s only a matter of time.” He met her eyes, letting her know he was lying through his teeth.
“And I’m supposed to help you.” She stared down at her completed sandwich. “I don’t know the first thing about nuclear physics.”
“You’re a math teacher. That should come in handy. You can help me with my calculations.”
She looked around the cabin again. “You don’t have a computer?”
He shook his head.
“And I don’t see any books. Don’t you need reference materials? Formulas?”
He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all in here.” He almost laughed at the skepticism that was so plain on her face. “No, really. I have a photographic memory. I’ve memorized all the textbooks and formulas and manuals. Once I read something, I remember it. Some of my colleagues thought I was a freak, but it made me the perfect candidate for Duane’s little project.” Finding out how thoroughly the Patriots’ leader had vetted him had made Mark feel even more vulnerable and helpless, as if there was nowhere to hide from Duane’s reach.
“I thought photographic memories were something people made up for movies and books,” she said.
“No, it’s a real phenomenon. Something to do with how the person’s brain is wired. There may even be a genetic component in this case. My mother had perfect pitch. My twin brother never forgets a face.”
“You have a twin?”
“Yes. Luke is an FBI agent. He’s part of a special task force composed of people like him—super-recognizers who never forget a face.”
“An FB—” She shook her head. “Then Duane is an idiot—and I don’t care who hears me say that.”
“Duane believes he’s untouchable,” Mark said. And maybe he was. The man had managed to get away with murder—literally—for a while now. “I know Luke is looking for me,” he continued. “But Duane is hunting him, too. He’s made it known he’ll pay a big bonus to anyone who kills a Fed.”
“He bragged about it to me, too.”
He studied her, wishing he could decipher people as easily as he could chemical formulas. Was she telling the truth about how she had ended up here, or was this merely one more way for Braeswood and his bunch to mess with Mark’s mind? “Why did he send you here, really?” he asked, leaning toward her. “I don’t need an assistant for this project. Are you here to spy on me? Will you report back to him everything I’ve said?” He ought to be afraid of those consequences, but after all this time trapped here with no way out he would welcome a bullet to end it all.
“You really think I would work for people like them? That I could believe in their sick plots or condone anything they do?” She shoved the sandwich away and glared at him, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing.
“Accusing me isn’t the same as denial,” he pointed out.
“No! I don’t want anything to do with those monsters. And I don’t want anything to do with you.” She stalked away and sat on the end of the unmade bed, her back to him.
Even from across the room, he imagined the heat of her anger washing over him. He welcomed the warmth, the intensity of the emotion, the life in her. For so long now—before they had even brought him here, since Christy’s death—he had felt cold and hollow inside, more robot than man. Only his daughter had been able to stir him, her tiny breath able to coax sparks from the few coals of life left inside him.
Then she was gone and the fire had died altogether. He had gone through the motions of living, but had felt nothing.
Now Erin was here, all fiery anger and glowing life, making him remember things—hatred and hunger and sex. Somehow being near a woman, after so many months with only the company of other men, reminded him of his own humanity. He wasn’t dead after all, but he didn’t know if that knowledge was good or bad. Living meant feeling—risking and caring and hurting. All things he had told himself he couldn’t afford to do again.
* * *
ERIN ENVIED MARK’S COMPOSURE. She couldn’t sit still, agitation driving her to pace. She had lived with fear for so long it was part of her makeup now, like the color of her hair or the shape of her face. Even years after she had left the family compound she continued to look over her shoulder, expecting her stepfather to make good on all the threats he had hurled at her when she’d walked away from him. Duane had a need to control situations and people. If you thwarted him, you could expect to be punished.
He had bided his time, but he had finally exacted his revenge, though she still wasn’t sure of his final plans for her. She kept expecting his thugs to come back for her—to tie her up again and tell her there had been a change of plans, that this remote cabin wasn’t her real destination. This place was too bizarre, even for Duane. Did he really believe he could build a nuclear bomb in a place like this? With a scientist who didn’t even bother to look at a book?
She risked a glance at Mark, who had returned to work at the lab table. He wore goggles and a mask and was working with his hands in heavy gloves, manipulating something inside a large glass box. Maybe the protective gear was because the material in that box was radioactive. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders to ward off a sudden chill.
She couldn’t figure Mark out. The story he had told her—about his wife and little girl—was horrifying. She was pretty sure Duane had killed other people, so why not Mark’s wife? But how could Mark be so calm about his situation? She had spent every waking moment for the last six weeks trying to figure out how to escape from her captors. She had almost succeeded twice—she still winced, remembering the beatings she’d received when she had been caught. But Duane hadn’t let them kill her or rape her or otherwise harm her. She had thought he drew the line there out of consideration for her mother, but now she wondered if it was because he had other plans for her. Plans that included the enigmatic Mark Renfro.
Her stomach growled. The sandwich she had made earlier still sat on the kitchen counter, so she retrieved it and took it to the table to eat. Mark glanced up from his work. “They usually bring dinner by now,” he said. “Since they haven’t, we may have to make do with cold cuts.”
She shrugged. She didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to get any closer to him, but curiosity—and maybe loneliness—weakened her resolve. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m using a solvent to extract pure uranium from powdered ore,” he said. “The process takes a couple of days, but there’s a lot of high-grade ore in this area. I think that’s why Duane was interested in the property in the first place. Some things I’ve overheard make me think he hasn’t owned the place long—that he acquired it specifically for this purpose. The remote location suits his purposes well, too.”
“I still don’t understand how you convinced Duane you could make a bomb out here,” she said. “He’s insane, but he isn’t stupid.”
He removed his hands from the box, pulled
