LITMIR.BIZ

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to a meeting in Seattle and will be back by this evening. What I don’t know is if you’ve made any progress yet.” Ben sat up, annoyed now. Who the hell made phone calls at four-thirty in the morning? If he’d had any doubts about the man being a control freak, this cinched it.

      “Some,” Ben replied in answer to McNair’s question.

      “You’ve found her?” Excitement echoed in the receiver against Ben’s ear.

      Ben sighed, pulling up the comforter. Outside, the January rain was beating against his window. Telling him to go back to sleep. “No, but I might have located a relative.”

      “Where?”

      The question echoed like a command for disclosure. Maybe it was because he was half asleep, but the tone rubbed him the wrong way. Instincts surfaced, making him just the slightest bit wary. McNair, polished CEO though he might be, was in this case a loose cannon. Loose cannons had a way of going off at precisely the worst time. Ben wasn’t about to take the chance of having things blown apart by an overzealous parent.

      “Let me check it out and I’ll let you know.”

      The answer irritated McNair. “I’m not paying you to play games, Underwood.”

      Ben cut him yet a little more slack, though it galled him to do so. Stress did strange things to people, he reminded himself. Maybe, under ordinary circumstances, Stephen McNair was a completely likable person, although Ben sincerely doubted it.

      In any event, rules had to be set and boundaries defined. “No, Mr. McNair, you’re paying me to find your son and I intend to do that. But it’ll have to be my way. Again, that’s what you’re paying me for.”

      He heard the man bite off a retort he couldn’t make out, then say in a guarded voice, “You’ll call as soon as you have anything?”

      “I’ll call,” Ben promised, just as he had yesterday as McNair left the office. The man had tried to bully him into making reports at regular intervals. That might have been standard procedure at McNair’s company, but that wasn’t the way he operated and Ben had made his position perfectly clear. Or so he thought.

      “Speaking of calling, how did you get my home number?” It was unlisted, and although he’d given out his number on occasion to more than one distraught parent, something had prevented Ben from offering it to McNair. Self-preservation, most likely.

      “I have ways.” There was a smug note in the other man’s voice. And then he reiterated his earlier point. “I would appreciate you checking in with me regularly.”

      Maybe the agency should refine its screening process, Ben thought, growing closer to the end of his patience. At the moment, the agency took on all comers. Maybe it was time for Cade to rethink that when he got back from the case he was working on.

      “There’s nothing regular about my line of work. I’ll call when there’s something to call about. Goodbye, Mr. McNair.”

      Ben let the receiver fall back into the cradle, then slid back down on the bed. Less than five minutes of tossing and turning made him acknowledge that he was too irritated to go back to sleep.

      Muttering under his breath, Ben got up to take a shower. The last time he’d been up on the wrong side of four-thirty, it’d been to get ready for his paper route before going to school. The nuns at St. Mary’s, aware of his mother’s financial situation, had said paying part of his own tuition at the parochial school would make a man out of him.

      He didn’t feel very manly right now. Just tired.

      With a sigh, he turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower. There was no sense wasting time.

      The drive up Interstate 5 from Bedford to Saratoga would have been scenic had it not been for the early morning fog that hung about the winding road. He was a careful driver by nature. It wasn’t often, though, that he worried about the road and the hazards caused by careless drivers.

      But a fog this thick made him aware of every inch of road. And the possibility of his own quickly snuffed-out mortality.

      Ben slowed his vehicle down to a crawl.

      He supposed he could have gone later, but the word itself held a foreboding threat within it. Later was too close to never when it came to kidnappings. It was always best to follow every lead as soon as it occurred. Later might be too late.

      He didn’t ever intend to be too late. So far, he’d been lucky. He’d never had to face a parent and say those gut-wrenching, eternally tormenting words that would forever cut them off from hope. He’d found every child he’d set out to locate. Which was what made his job at ChildFinders so much more rewarding than the time he’d spent in the homicide division on the police force.

      The coffee nestled in his cup holder had grown cold and stagnant by the time the fog had lifted, and he felt confident enough to risk taking one hand off the wheel to take a drink. By then, he was fifteen miles out of Saratoga.

      The small town created an immediate impression the moment he entered it. Saratoga looked as if it should have been the subject of a fairy tale. Or, at the very least, a Frank Capra movie. There was a picturesque, storybook quality about it. The climate was cooler up here, and what had been rain in Bedford had transformed into light flurries in Saratoga.

      The light layer of fresh snow on the trees and ground made Ben think of a Currier and Ives painting.

      The woman he was looking for lived ten miles on the other side of Saratoga.

      “I do so like getting visitors,” the small, cherubic woman said, smiling at Ben. “Have another cookie.” She pushed the near-full plate toward him. “I just wind up eating them myself half the time.” Her eyes twinkled and she gave the illusion of lucidity as she smiled at her girth. “But I suspect you’ve already guessed that.”

      The wan afternoon sun had finally withdrawn from the parlor they were in, after losing a hopeless battle for space within a room crammed full of knickknacks and memorabilia. It was a room where an old woman sat, surrounded by things that reminded her that she had once been young, with the world at her feet. Too heavyset to be called elfin, she still had that way about her. She was charming, and maybe, at some other time, Ben wouldn’t have minded spending an afternoon talking to her about nothing.

      But he didn’t have time. Because of McNair’s admitted reticence, too much had already elapsed. The longer it took him to find Andrew McNair, the harder it would become.

      “No.” The lie came easily to him. It harmed nothing to pretend that she was not heavy. The woman’s smile became wider. “No, I hadn’t guessed.” Picking up another one of the cookies she was pushing on him, he took a bite. The cookies, laced liberally with macadamia nuts, were quite possibly the best he’d ever had. Andrea would have killed for these, he thought, chocolate chip cookies being a particular weakness for his middle sister. “And much as I’d like to load up on these, Mrs. Malone—”

      “Oh, please, everyone calls me Sugar. I forget exactly why. Sugarland isn’t my given name, you know.”

      “I rather suspected that,” he said, smiling. “But as to the reason I’m here—”

      “Oh, yes, your reason.” Her smile faded a little. “And once you tell me, you’ll be gone, won’t you?”

      He’d met her less than twenty minutes ago. Knocking on her door, he’d been surprised when she’d ushered him in like a long-lost friend. Asking for his name had been an after-thought. It had left him wondering if there was anyone who looked in on the old woman from time to time to make sure she hadn’t given up the deed to the old Victorian house, or its surrounding fields. He hoped that the foreman who managed her field hands was a decent sort.

      “I’m afraid—”

      Sugar waved away the excuse magnanimously. “That’s all right, Gloria was the same way, flitting in and out before I could so much as blink twice. I expect it’s the same with all young people.”

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