This bar and the pool hall were his only means of entertainment, and he couldn't afford to come down here more than a couple of times a week. In a town like Blackwater Fork, the recession had dug deep and lasting, and most of the menfolk lived on welfare like himself.

It was ironic, really, he thought, but the only person who felt any responsibility for him was Jake. For all he'd treated the boy so bad, he still came around most every week. And he wasn't afraid to put his hand in his pocket. Not like his daughters' husbands, all of whom made sure they were looking the other way when it was their turn to buy the old man a beer.

Thinking of Jake reminded him that it had been the better part of two weeks since he'd seen him. Dammit, he'd forgotten that, and now he felt a rising sense of indignation. He hadn't spoken to him since that afternoon when that punk of a brother of his had turned up to see him. Supercilious jerk, Fletch thought contemptuously. It was amazing how two brothers could turn out so different from one another.

Yeah, he mused, but that was his doing. He felt an unaccustomed glow of self-congratulation at the thought. Okay, so maybe he had been hard on the boy, but that was what he'd needed. His brother had been treated like a prince, and look how he'd turned out.

'Course, Jake's running away to join the army when he was sixteen might have had something to do with it. He remembered when he'd been in the military, they'd taught him to have respect. But all that bootblacking and saluting and sucking up to officers hadn't done anything for his career. And Jake had been in a God-awful mess when he'd gotten back from 'Nam.

He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of small bills and some coins. Enough for one more beer, he figured, grunting, if he could get by without buying any more cigarettes for the rest of the week. He pushed himself up, ambled over to the bar, and ordered a Budweiser. What the hell, the doc was always telling him to cut out smoking, and in spite of the cool fall afternoon beyond the leaded windows, his throat still felt as scratchy as hell.

With a fresh bottle clutched in his hand, he resumed his seat at the table, his mind returning to Jake and his unfamiliar absence. He couldn't believe anything he'd said to Nathan could have caused a rift between them. Dammit, the boy knew what his brother was like, and he had no time for him.

Jake was the only one who cared if he was alive, he brooded lugubriously. It'd probably be a lot easier on all the rest if he was dead. Ever since Andy Peyton passed away, he'd been waiting his call to join him. And if he drank any more of that 'shine he brewed in his back yard, it wouldn't be long.

Bitterness soured his tongue at the thought of what was facing him, with no one to shed a tear over his coffin now that Alice was gone. Would she be waiting for him like she was supposed to have waited for him all those years ago? Or had she found someone else-just like she'd done before.

He'd blamed Jake for that, he recalled ruefully. He'd beat the shit out of the boy because his mother had spread her legs for someone else. Of course, it hadn't been the boy's fault, but dammit, he'd had to take his grief out on someone. He'd trusted Alice, trusted her completely, and she'd treated him like a fool.

And they'd been happy before Jacob Wolfe and his money had come along, he thought, growing maudlin. Oh, there'd been times when he'd let his temper get the better of him, when he'd had too many beers, and his fists had begun to fly. But that was the way it was. A man needed to feel the master in his own home, and when he wasn't home, he was travelling, trying to earn enough to feed his brood.

Including the cuckoo in his nest, he conceded harshly. God, he'd been so proud of his "son". He'd even neglected his daughters because of it, giving Jake all his love and attention. And when he'd found out Alice had been lying to him, he'd wanted to kill them both.

It had been the knowledge that the whole town had known what was happening and had been laughing at him behind his back that had really crippled him. He'd threatened to throw the boy out, and he would have, too, if Alice hadn't said that if he went she'd go, as well. In the event, his anger couldn't sustain the thought of her desertion. For all she'd let him down, he couldn't let her go.

And he'd still rather have Jake than all his daughters put together. He'd never gotten married, and although there were always women around, Jake seemed to find his stimulation in his work. He'd never said so, but Fletch suspected he saw his defence of young drug offenders as a kind of vocation; a chance to pay back something of the debt he'd taken out. There was no doubt those shrinks at the psychiatric unit had had their work cut out with him when he got home from the service.

God, it was over twenty years, but he could still hear the boy screaming, waking up nights, soaked in his own sweat. And babbling on-hell! If half of what Jake had talked about during those attacks was kosher, then Fletch didn't know how he'd kept sane.

The things he'd experienced, the horrors he'd seen, probably still haunted him. But Jake didn't talk about it any more. Instead, he expunged his own fears by confronting the problem in others. And there was no doubt he was well-respected at the public defender's office.

One of these days, Fletch was sure, Jake would be hanging out his own shingle. Not bad for a truck driver's son. 'Course, whatever anyone said, Jake was his son. He might have Jacob Wolfe's blood in his veins, but he was a Connor through and through.

Still, remembering how sick Jake had been, Fletch couldn't help thinking about Alice. They'd been closer then, caring for the boy, than at any other time he could recall. They'd both been to blame for him running away to join the army, and when he'd come back all fucked up, there was nothing they wouldn't have done for him.

It had taken three long years for Jake to come back from whatever hell he'd been inhabiting. Three years of nursing and therapy and plain old tender loving care. And by the time Jake was well, Alice had developed the tumour. The doctors said they couldn't operate; that there was nothing they could do.

For a while, he and Jake had been inconsolable. Maybe that was when their strange alliance had begun. Whatever differences they'd had in the past, they'd both loved Jake's mother, and Fletch had felt he'd owed it to Alice's memory not to let the boy down.

But with the bottom falling out of the lumber market, and the haulage company he'd worked for going to the wall, it hadn't been easy, and when Jake announced that he was going back to college, he'd felt pretty sorry for himself. Yet, when Jake graduated, there wasn't a prouder man on the college campus. The first Connor in the family to get a degree.

He lifted the bottle in his hand, only to discover it was empty. While he'd been reliving the past, he'd swallowed every drop. And dammit, his throat was still as dry as a desert. Was it something to do with the fact that his eyes were damp?

That was when he looked across the room and saw Jacob Wolfe.

Blinking in disbelief, he saw his old enemy standing by the door. Jacob was squinting in the smoky atmosphere of the bar. He hadn't seen Fletch yet, and his expression was hard to read.

Fletch lurched to his feet. Even after all these years, he had no difficulty in recognising his nemesis. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was still the spitting image of his son. Of both his sons, Fletch thought with angry resentment. What the hell was he doing here in Blackwater Fork?

Before he could do more than stand there, swaying on his feet, Jacob saw him. Then, after a brief word with the bartender, he headed for Fletch's booth. Jacob had evidently lost weight and he looked pale, but Fletch had no sympathy for him. This was the man who had ruined his life, he thought savagely. If it hadn't been for Alice, he'd have gone after him years ago.

"Connor," said Jacob politely, apparently unaware of Fletch's fury, "I know I'm the last man you want to see, but I have to talk to you. Now. It's urgent. May I sit down?"

Fletch's outrage brought the hectic colour surging into his stubbled cheeks, and his hands curled into two tight fists. But before he could speak the words that were fulminating inside him, he saw Casey approaching with a tray on which resided a bottle of Scotch whisky and two glasses. The reason for the other man's conversation with the bartender was suddenly obvious, and although he despised himself for his weakness, he sank back into his seat.

Jacob took the grunt he uttered as he sat down again as a gesture of consent, and gripping the edges of the table, he lowered his lean frame onto the opposite bench. Pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, he dropped it on the tray after Casey had unloaded the bottle and glasses. "I'll get the change later," he said, nodding at the man. "We don't want to be disturbed."

"Yessir."

Casey could be irritatingly servile when he chose, and Fletch fixed him with a glowering look. The barkeep went away showing no signs of having been intimidated by Fletch's stare, and he was left to look broodingly at the other man.

Still, first things first, he thought as Jacob picked up the bottle and half filled the two glasses. He could already taste the smoothness of the malt. The whisky slid down his throat like the softest kind of velvet, and his fingers itched to pour himself another.

"Oh, that's good," said Jacob now, savouring the taste of the whisky, and Fletch thought contemptuously that he drank like a woman. Men didn't sip at it like that. Goddammit, he hadn't swallowed enough to clean his palate. Whisky was meant to be thrown to the back of the throat. In his case, it usually went down without touching the sides.

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly, deciding he had had enough of this. His fingers curled into a fist beside his glass. "We got nothing to say to one another."

"Don't we?" Surprisingly, for such a frail man, Jacob was obviously not intimidated, either. Shit, thought Fletcher in anger. Was he losing his touch?

"No, we don't," he said, emptying his glass with his second gulp. "I suggest you get outta here, while you still can."

Jacob sighed as if in resignation and pushed the whisky towards him. "Help yourself," he said wearily, not moving. "While I decide where to begin."

Fletch resisted the pull of the bottle and pointed a finger that he couldn't prevent from trembling slightly at the other man. "I should beat your fucking brains out. I've been wanting to push your fucking teeth down your throat ever since you came through that door!"

"Charming," said Jacob sardonically, without any of the alarm Fletch had expected. But somehow, over the years, he'd lost that cutting edge, and Fletch wondered what had happened to pull him down.

And because there was no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, Fletch grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. What the hell, he thought, he might as well enjoy it. If Jacob wanted to reminisce that was up to him.

"How long is it since you've seen Jake?" Jacob asked suddenly, and Fletch, who was considering the dregs in his glass, felt a sobering shot of fear invade his loins. Dammit, Jacob hardly knew Jake. The boy never bothered with him. But he was reminded that his son hadn't been around.

"What's it to you?" he demanded, exhibiting a defiance he didn't truly feel, and Jacob took a shuddering gulp of air.

"Humour me," he said. "How long is it since you've seen him? Or don't you keep in touch with him any more?"

" 'Course we keep in touch." Fletch was indignant. "As a matter of fact, I see Jake at least once every week. He doesn't forget his old man. It wasn't you that cared for him when he got home from 'Nam."

Jacob exhaled wearily. "I'm not interested in the past, Connor. Nor am I here to dispute the fact that you've been a better father to him than I could ever be. But-" he moved his thin shoulders in a dismissive gesture "-I want to know when you last saw him." He paused. "Tell me, has he ever tried to pass himself off as Nathan?"

"What?" Fletch's indignation was so great, he spluttered whisky all over the table, causing Jacob to draw back in distaste. "There ain't no way my boy would want to imitate that bastard! Believe me, he despises the both of you almost as much as me."

Jacob moistened his lips. "D'you think so?"

"I don't think it, jerk. I know it." Fletch swept the half-empty bottle of whisky and all the beer bottles from the table as he got unsteadily to his feet. "Like I said before, you and me got no damn thing in common. Now get the hell outta here! Before I break your neck."

Jacob sighed. "Sit down," he said, barely raising his voice, and Fletch glared at him with bloodshot eyes.

"You can't give me orders," he snarled. "I'm still not too old to beat the shit outta you. Just ask anyone around here. They know old Fletch still has what it takes."

Jacob gave him a pitying look. "Sit down," he said again. "You've just wasted twenty dollars' worth of fine malt whisky. How about if I call the sheriff to sort this out?"

"Wouldn't do you no good," retorted Fletch, but his defiance was less convincing. He knew the new sheriff, Ellis Hutchinson, wouldn't hesitate to throw him in jail. Since Andy Peyton died, things in Blackwater Fork had gone from bad to worse.

Jacob was waiting, and with a feeling of frustration, Fletch subsided into his seat again. He should have dealt with Wolfe when he was younger, he thought bitterly. These days, his threats were hollow things at best.

His spirits lifted a little when Jacob signalled Casey to bring another bottle, and after his glass was full again, he looked squarely at the other man. "What's all this about?" he demanded. "Why are you asking all these questions about Jake?"

"You'll find out." Jacob cradled his own glass between his hands. "So you don't think he envies his brother at all?"

Fletch scowled. "Jake? Envy that ponce?" He grimaced. "If you asked me if Nathan envied Jake, I might agree with you. He was pretty desperate to see him a couple weeks ago."

Jacob stared at him. "Nathan came to see Jake?" he echoed. "When?"

"I've just told you. A couple weeks ago," replied Fletch carelessly. "Made me call him from the house. Said he didn't want to go to Jake's office."

Jacob looked disturbed. "So what did he want? Did he tell you?"

Fletch gave the other man a scornful look. "Oh, sure. He'd do that, wouldn't he?" He sneered. "Nathan wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire."

Jacob ignored the provocation, and then asked shortly, "So did he speak to Jake? How long did he stay?"

"I don't know how long he stayed, do I?" Fletch was resentful. "He arranged to meet Jake in town, and I ain't set eyes on either of them since."

Jacob's face turned even paler. "You don't think-"

"What?" Fletch stared at him. "What don't I think?" Then, as if realising what Jacob might be insinuating, his face turned red. "You ain't suggesting Jake's gotten rid of his brother, so's he can take his place, are you?" His eyes darkened angrily. "Now see here..."

He started to get up out of his seat again, his swaying bulk threatening to overturn the table, but this time Jacob's hand placed squarely between his sagging pectorals drove him back onto the bench. "I'm not suggesting anything," he said with a warning note of caution. "But I'd like to know why Jake was on that flight."

"Flight?" Fletch blinked. "What flight?"

"The one that crashed on take-off in New York," replied Jacob heavily. "Christ, don't you read the papers? A jumbo ploughed into the runway at JFK."

Fletch quivered. "Jake's-dead?" A sour wave of bile filled his throat. "God-why didn't you say so?" Tears pricked his eyes. "Oh, Lord, I loved that boy!"

"No." Jacob was impatient now. "Jake's alive. Didn't I just say so? And he's supposed to have lost his memory in the crash. But the reservation must have been made in Nathan's name because that's what they're calling him. Do you hear what I'm saying? But I went to see him in the hospital, and it was Jake!"

9.

"D'you wanna refill?"

He started, his thoughts far away from the dingy diner where he had come to try and sort out what he was going to do. Hunching his shoulders, he had the uneasy suspicion that the woman was staring at him, but he guessed she was only impatient because he hadn't given her a tip.

Besides, no one knew he was here, and even if they did, he wasn't doing anything wrong. Well, not yet, he amended broodingly. He was just sitting here, nursing a half-empty cup of cold coffee, and wondering what in hell he should do next.

He'd been so clear in his mind at the beginning. Getting his brother to help him had seemed an inspiration. He'd always resented the fact that despite the differences in their backgrounds, the other man had made more of a success of his life than he had. And it shouldn't be true, for Christ's sake. He had had all the advantages. Why did everything he attempted go so wrong?

This time, he'd been sure that nothing could stop him. With his brother on board the plane to England, all he'd intended to do was phone the Heathrow authorities and warn them that a certain passenger from New York was carrying drugs. A small amount, true, but enough to put his brother away for a little while.

But before he'd had time to make the call, he'd heard about the accident on the car radio. God, he remembered the elation he'd felt when he'd heard that news. For a full twenty-four hours he'd been convinced his troubles were over. What had the chances been of his brother surviving?

But like every other time in his goddamned life, he'd drawn a loser. The initial reports of a total disaster had been revised, and by the time he'd reached here, the rescue services were being praised for their bravery in saving so many. A call-anonymously, of course-to the hospital had confirmed his fears. His brother was one of the "lucky" survivors, and instead of that putting him out of danger, it had created problems he hadn't even thought of before the crash.

He grimaced. He'd even considered going to the hospital and finishing the job himself. What would it take to make a man who was already suffering from shock and concussion to stop breathing? But he had been heading for the border with Canada by that time, and in any case, he knew he didn't have the guts to do it. He could tell himself that even with a disguise someone might recognise him, but the truth was, he was too scared to kill his brother in cold blood.

He scowled, and the waitress, imagining the scowl was for her, gave him a surly look. "Hey, you've been nursing that cuppa coffee for over an hour," she exclaimed defensively. "Can I help it if the boss thinks you oughta vacate the table. This is a diner, not a waiting room."

He hid the scowl behind a rueful grimace. He had enough problems without creating more. The woman was only doing her job. She wasn't to know what he was thinking, thank God!

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't listening. I've not been sleeping well lately." Wasn't that the truth? "I guess I must have dozed off."

The waitress seemed mollified by his apology. He guessed apologies weren't thick on the ground around here. "You live local?" she asked, pouring the coffee and gesturing at the neon lights beyond the grubby windows. He thanked her and fumbled for a convincing response.

He could hardly tell her he'd only been in town a couple of days. That this small town, on the U.S. side of the Canadian border had never been intended to be his destination. It reminded him too much of Prescott in any case. All small-town folk were the same: they wanted to know far too much about you for your own good.

"Just passing through," he offered at last, stirring some more sugar into his cup. It was the only thing that made the stuff palatable, though he had to admit it filled a corner. At present, he was finding it difficult to swallow any food.

"You going north?" she asked, propping a hand on her hip and evidently deciding she had time to chat. And why not? The diner was virtually empty. No one could accuse him of stopping a would-be customer from finding a seat.

"Maybe," he responded, regretting the impulse that had made him open up to her in the first place. "I-as a matter of fact-I'm looking for work. My last job folded and my girlfriend threw me out."

That was good, he complimented himself. Enough information to satisfy her curiosity and just a bit of pathos to gain her sympathy. Hell, if he'd been in the mood, he guessed he could have persuaded her to take him home with her. But getting involved with another woman was not in the cards right now.

Besides, he thought, giving the woman a critical glance, he could do better than this. Okay, his relationship with Lisa had been going nowhere, but at least she still had her looks. His lips curled. It was the only thing she had to offer, and she was going to find out soon enough it wasn't enough.

"I could ask Eddie if he needs someone," the waitress offered, indicating the pock-marked proprietor, who was scowling at them from behind the bar. "He knows most people in town. If he doesn't have anything himself, he might know someone who does."

"I don't think so."

He tried to sound regretful, but he could tell by her expression that she knew she was being given the brush-off. "Suit yourself," she said, and tossing her head, she sashayed back to the bar. Bending forward, she exchanged a few words with the burly proprietor, and when they both turned and looked in his direction, he decided it was time to call it a day.

Tossing a couple of dollar bills onto the table, he picked up his bag and hurried out into the parking lot. It was getting dark, the overcast sky bringing a premature twilight in its wake. It was time he got back to his hotel. He had no desire to be mugged on top of everything else.

He climbed into the rental car, stowing the bag beside him, but he didn't immediately start the engine. He was in no hurry to get back to the dump where he was staying. That was why he'd been spending time in the diner-because the room he was occupying was such a wreck. He'd never stayed in such a fleapit, but it was cheap and convenient, even if he had slept on the only armchair rather than climb between those grubby sheets.

He sighed. If only he knew what was going on in New York. Okay, his brother was in the hospital, but what had he told them about himself? What might he have told Carl Walker's henchmen, for God's sake? Had the other guy sent someone over to check out he was really there?

Yet why should he? he argued, trying to convince himself. The crash had been public enough, and no one could doubt that the plane had gone up in smoke. And all the baggage with it, he reminded himself grimly. Whatever happened, Carl must believe the cocaine had been destroyed.

He licked lips that had suddenly dried. He couldn't dismiss the thought that Carl was too clever to let him get away with it. What if he'd already been to see his brother and found out from him that he had been going to double-cross him? He caught his breath. What if they were waiting for him when he tried to cross the border? God, it might be simpler to go back and face the music.