AWOL with the Operative. Jean Thomas
They did. A moment later the lantern bloomed with light that glowed through the open door.
“Come on down,” he urged.
Eve joined him in the root cellar. The light of the lantern that Sam had placed on an overturned crate revealed a small room with a hard-packed earthen floor, the low ceiling she had anticipated and stone walls against which were ranged wooden shelves.
Sam was pleased with his find. “It’s okay, huh? Belowground like this, and with that mound over it, the temperature down here must never dip below freezing. The lantern puts out some warmth, too.”
“Home never looked better,” Eve agreed.
Sam found an abandoned can in one corner. He took it outside to fill with snow, which he intended to melt over the heat of the oil lantern. By the time he returned, Eve had placed two of the wide, loose shelves on the floor to serve as seats for them.
“Cozy, right?” Sam asked a short while later as they sat side by side on the boards, legs outstretched.
Eve couldn’t deny, with the door now tightly shut and keeping out the worst of the cold, that the cellar made a snug refuge for them. The snow had melted in the can. He passed it to her. She drank from it and handed the can back to him. It tasted flat, but it was water. She was grateful for that.
“Too bad,” Sam said after satisfying his own thirst, “they didn’t leave any food behind on those shelves. Not that it would be any good by now.”
“You hungry? I am, too, so…” Opening her shoulder bag, Eve produced two granola bars from its depth. “Like the Girl Scouts, I believe in coming prepared. Or is it the Boy Scouts? Doesn’t matter.”
She extended one of the bars toward him. Sam grabbed it with a heartfelt “Angel, you are an angel.” He started to tear off the wrapper and then stopped. “This is no good.”
“Why? What are you thinking?”
“If we eat both of these bars tonight, it leaves us nothing for tomorrow. Unless you have some more goodies down there.”
“I don’t.” He was right. They needed to save something for tomorrow. Maybe even beyond tomorrow, much as she hated to think of that possibility.
“Here,” he said, giving his bar back to her. “Take temptation away from me before I weaken.”
With his strong will, she doubted he would. But she accepted the bar, tucking it back in her purse before she unwrapped the other bar, divided it and handed him his half.
They were silent for a moment, munching on their spare rations. Sam had asked her not to fuss about his health. She had obeyed that request while they were on the move, but now that they were safe and settled she felt a need to question him.
“Your headache—”
“Is no longer a problem. The aspirin took care of that. And please don’t make an issue of the lump I’m wearing up here, either. It’s still a bit sore from that hard whack against the window, but it isn’t giving me any real trouble, I promise.”
“Good.” She hesitated before asking a cautious “Your memory, Sam. Is anything coming back?”
He thought about it for a few seconds before answering her. “There have been a few images, just these quick flashes that come and go before I can hang on to them, never mind make any sense of them. Maybe it’s time we got working on that.”
“You’re ready to have me tell you what you’re doing here and why I’m with you?”
“Might help if I can start connecting some dots.”
He listened patiently, without question or comment, as Eve started from the beginning. She made her story as brief, but complete, as possible, telling him how she and Charlie Fowler were on holiday together at the Yukon skiing village. That they had traveled separately up to the village where he had left her at the end of the week to fly back home. And died on the road to the airport in Dawson, a death that the Mounties were unable to determine was accident or murder and which still had her in its emotional grip. But this last bit she kept to herself.
She did explain, however, that the Mounties had agreed on behalf of the FBI to keep an eye on Charlie Fowler. And since he’d apparently had some connection with organized crime back in the States, the RCMP had promptly contacted the bureau following his death. The bureau had sent Special Agent Sam McDonough to escort her to Chicago. Their bush plane had been shot down en route, allegedly at the orders of crime boss Victor DeMarco.
“That’s everything, Sam.” It wasn’t. There was something more, but Eve had no intention of sharing it with the FBI. They didn’t need to know it. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about your life before you met me at the lodge. But maybe what I have told you is sparking your memory.”
Sam shook his head. “It isn’t. We’ll have to give it time.” He was quiet for a moment. “This DeMarco character. Why is he trying to kill you?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.
“Okay.” Having accepted that, he was thoughtful for another minute. “So, whatever the reason, we were going home to Chicago where I was to deliver you to my squad supervisor.”
“Well, home for you, I suppose, but not for me. I live in St. Louis.”
“And what do you do in St. Louis, Eve Warren?”
“I’m the senior editor for a regional magazine.”
“Huh, impressive.”
“It’s not like one of the big New York magazines, Sam. We just cover the St. Louis metropolitan area—openings and restaurants and what’s trendy on the local scene. Things like that.”
“Family?”
“Not anymore. I just had my mother, and I lost her two years ago. My dad died when I was a teenager.”
Sam murmured his sympathy. Before she could thank him for that, she felt a yawn coming on. She smothered it, wondering what time it was. She checked her watch. Well after nine o’clock already, even though some light had remained in the sky not much more than an hour ago. But then she’d forgotten how long the days were at this time of year.
“I’m exhausted.”
“We could both use a solid night’s sleep,” he said.
She was about to agree and didn’t. She had remembered something. “You can’t go to sleep, not if you do have a concussion. At least not for more than an hour or two at a time. I think that’s what I’ve heard.”
She was afraid he would oppose her argument and was relieved when he agreed.
“All right, I’ll take the first watch. When I can no longer keep my eyes open, I’ll wake you for your shift.” He leaned forward, lowering the wick on the lantern until its glow was reduced to a faint gleam. “Still plenty of oil, but it might be smart to conserve it.”
Huddled together, with their backs against the wall, Eve was prepared for that solid sleep Sam had prescribed. She didn’t get it. The cellar might be above freezing, but it was anything but warm. Even with the door tightly closed, she could feel currents of cold air seeping through the cracks between its planks. And although she was so tired she couldn’t help dozing off, it was a fitful sleep. She kept waking up, shivering against the icy drafts that stirred around the floor.
He didn’t object when, in desperation, Eve scooted against the man at her side, seeking his warmth. Sam McDonough, offering security and comfort with his presence. She valued these along with a surprising gentleness and a sense of humor, both of which had miraculously surfaced from under a brittle crust.
Eve didn’t want him not to find his memory. To wish otherwise would be unthinkable. Still, she sighed, she would regret trading this caring man for the hateful one he’d been before his amnesia, when