"Well, that's stupid," Charles said even though she was already gone. "I didn't realize I raised you to be stupid. You can't choose who you love. Where the hell did you get that idea?"

Tom took a gamble. He bypassed Admiral Crowley's office and called the FBI directly. He'd worked with Special Agent Duncan Lund a few years ago. And although they hadn't kept in close touch, he knew Dunk wouldn't have forgotten him.

He called the man at home and he spelled it out in detail-head injury, paranoia, doubt. It was two days to the ceremony and he was out of time. But Tom knew, from the way Dunk got more and more quiet, that he'd lost before he'd even begun.

Dunk had listened to all of it, though. And when he'd signed off, he'd told Tom he'd see what he could do to get people out there for Tuesday's ceremony.

But Tom didn't need a tracer on Dunk's phone to know the next number the FBI agent dialed was that of the U.S. Navy.

He was screwed. But what had he expected? His entire day had started badly right when he had woken up alone in his bed.

Kelly had been long gone. He'd told her he loved her, but she hadn't even stayed until dawn.

Tom punched in Chip Crowley's home number, hoping he'd connect with the admiral first.

But he was put on hold for an awfully long time.

"Well, you fucked yourself good this time," the admiral said in the form of a greeting as he came onto the line. "I just spoke to Larry Tucker, who wants to send the shore patrol out to bring you in. Seems he just got off the phone with the head of the FBI's counterterrorist division, who told him-"

"Sir, this threat's real," Tom interrupted Crowley. "This celebration is going to start with a high profile ceremony in two days, and I'm alone out here. I need help."

"That, Lieutenant, is God's truth. You do need help. But right now, I fear you have put yourself in a position where you are beyond any help I can give you."

"What can it hurt," Tom argued, "to bring in the FBI? There are going to be U.S. senators here. Representatives from England and France. If this bomb goes off-no, Admiral, when this bomb goes off-"

Crowley spoke through gritted teeth. "God damn it, Tom. Haven't you had enough? Can't you hear how crazy this sounds?"

"Sir, what if I'm right?"

"Son, you've had a serious injury that's affecting your judgment. What I want you to do is check yourself into the nearest military hospital."

"Yes, sir," Tom said. "I will do that, sir. Next week, after this celebration is over, if I'm wrong about this, I'll go. But until then . . . Well, sir, there are people in this town I care a great deal about, and I'm not leaving them until I'm dead certain the threat has been neutralized or proven nonexistent."

Mallory was still in bed when Brandon unlocked the door of David's apartment.

"Wow," he said, as clearly surprised to see her as she was to see him. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

He pocketed his key, but didn't turn to leave. Instead, he went into the kitchen. "I came to steal some of Sully's milk."

"There isn't any," Mallory told him, hiding the note David had left her on his pillow.

"Damn," Brandon said.

The sheet was up to her chin, but she was naked beneath it. She pulled her arms under, too, hoping he wouldn't notice, hoping he would leave as quickly as he came.

But he didn't. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Who would've guessed?" he said with one of his stupid-ass smiles that she'd once thought made him look so handsome. He may have been good-looking, but it was so superficial. His eyes were rimmed with red, as if he'd been out too late, drinking and partying. "Gorgeous Mallory in our little Sully's bed."

"He's not little," she said coldly. "Do you mind? I was sleeping."

He didn't move. "You know, Sul's been in love with his Nightshade character for years," he said. "Now that he's given her a face, it's only appropriate he should live out the complete fantasy and get to sleep with her, too." He laughed. "So tell me honestly, babe. Does he make you put on tights and pretend to fly around the room when you get it on?"

Mallory didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. "Very funny, Bran. Go away."

"You sure?" Bran winked. She couldn't believe she'd once liked the way that he winked. What had she been thinking? "He's not going to be back for another few hours. And it looks awfully comfortable in there. . . ."

He tugged at the sheet.

Mallory gripped it more tightly to her. "Don't!"

"Whoa, hey, relax, I was only kidding." He stood up, headed toward the door, thank God. But he turned back to look at her. "Sully's a lucky dude-living out that fantasy, you know? Kind of like getting a chance to sleep with Princess Leia or Counselor Troi. Yow! See you later, Nightshade."

As he shut the door behind him, Mallory pulled the note David had left her up from under the sheet.

He'd drawn a picture of her, asleep in his bed, drawn himself leaning over to kiss her good-bye. And in a thought bubble over his head, he'd written, "Can't wait to get back from work to make love to Nightshade again. . . ."

Nightshade.

He called her Nightshade, all the time. I love you, Nightshade.

Oh, God. What if Brandon hadn't been kidding? What if David wasn't in love with Mallory? What if he was in love with Nightshade?

And she wasn't Nightshade, that much was clear. She only shared the character's face and body.

Nightshade was brave and strong and confident. She was a superhero.

Mallory was the illegitimate child of the town screwup.

And she knew with a sudden flash of fear that while David would never leave Nightshade, he'd probably soon grow tired of Mallory Paoletti.

Tom threw the telephone across the office.

Jazz didn't look up at him, didn't flinch, didn't even blink. He just finished his own phone conversation, ending it more traditionally by dropping the handset into the cradle.

"I got Jenk, Nilsson, and Lopez." He spun in his chair to face Tom as he reported. His "sir" was silent, but it was there. "However, none of them can get here before early Tuesday morning."

"Shit."

"Better we have them then than not at all."

Tom rubbed his forehead. "I'm not so sure about that anymore. In fact, if this thing goes off without a hitch, if I've been wrong about the Merchant from the start, I want you and Starrett and Locke to leave town immediately. I don't want you getting hammered for helping me."

"There are worse things, Tom."

Tom looked into the eyes of the man who'd been at his side for years. A man he'd want beside him if he had to go into hell and back. And there had been times over the years that they'd done just that. "If I'm out, I'm going to push to have you take over the SO squad. You probably won't be given Team Sixteen. Not yet. But maybe someday-"

"I'm in no hurry for you to leave," Jazz said evenly.

"Yeah, well, Tucker is." Tom shook his head. "Wherever I call for help, his staff has been there first. The state police had been warned I might be calling, and were ordered to ignore me. Even the local police don't want to talk to me. In fact, the Baldwin's Bridge chief of police had the frigging audacity to order me away from the hotel until the celebration is over. He told me if I'm seen there, his men will pick me up and escort me to the station."

Jazz lifted an eyebrow. "Gee, I'd almost like to see them try."

"We're on our own," Tom told his XO.

Jazz actually smiled. "More power to us."

Kelly found her father curled up in his bed, gasping for air.

At first she thought he was having some kind of attack or stroke. And then she realized it was pain. Charles was in awful pain.

She slipped the nosepiece from his oxygen tank over his head to get him breathing easier. And then she opened his bottle of pain pills and . . .

There were only three left.

He must've been double and even triple dosing for going on days now.

"How many did you take, Daddy?" she asked. "How long ago?"

"Three," he told her. "Twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes he'd been like this, bent in half in agony.

"Why didn't you call me?" The question was out of her mouth before she realized the answer was unimportant. She was here now. She could help him as best she could now, which, after he'd taken three pills-three!-wasn't going to be much. She put her arms around him. He was so skinny, so fragile.

But to her surprise, he actually responded. "Didn't need to call. Knew you'd be down to say good night in a few minutes. Knew you'd come." He closed his eyes tightly as if a particularly terrible wave of pain washed over him, clutching at her arms with hands that had once been so big and strong, but now were skeletal and gnarled. "Can I . . . Christ, can you call the doctor for me? This stuff isn't working too well anymore."

Kelly wanted to cry. "There's nothing he can give you-not after you took three of these pills. You're going to have to wait. They may not be working to stop the pain, but if you take too many, they'll make you stop breathing."

"Okay," he said. "Okay, then." He opened his eyes as he let go of her, pushed her away. "You don't need to see this. You should go, then-"

"The hell I will. I'm not going to leave you." Kelly planted herself against the headboard of his bed, holding him close, as if she were the parent and he were the child.

"Cybele wouldn't, either," he told her. "You're a lot like Cybele-so strong and sure of yourself." He closed his eyes again, his words coming in gasps. "I'm not sure how much longer I can take this, but I just don't seem to die. Not last night, not today, probably not tonight. I'm not afraid of dying anymore-I'm afraid of this godawful pain."

Kelly couldn't help it. She started to cry. "I wish I could help you."

"You can. You can promise me you'll look out for Joe."

"I will," she promised. "I told you I would. I'll see he always has a place to live and-"

"Not that way," he said. "I know he's not going to be homeless or starving. I've left him enough money to take care of that. I mean the other. Take care of him. Try to make him understand that he really was the Hero of Baldwin's Bridge. He was ten times the man I was, Kelly. A hundred times. I don't know why Cybele couldn't love him, why she had to go and fall in love with me instead."

Kelly had seen her father's picture, taken at age twenty-three, right before he'd left to join the U.S. Army, the Fighting Fifty-fifth. He'd smiled into the camera, his eyes dancing with life and amusement. Joe had been a good-looking man, too, but Charles had had a magical air about him. He still had it, even at eighty. Even back when he was drinking and at his most cruel and verbally abusive, even then, the spark didn't quite go out.

She was not at all surprised that this Cybele would have chosen Charles, even over Joe.

"All I know is this," he whispered. "Listen. Are you listening?"

"Yeah," Kelly said. "I'm here."

"I know you're here, but are you listening?"

"You don't need to talk right now." As much as she wanted to hear what he had to say, she knew it was difficult for him to get these words out.

"It helps," he said. "Besides, you need to know. Because this is important, Kelly. You can't choose who you love. You can't say 'No, I will not love you; yes, I will love you.' You can't do that. When I met Cybele and Joe, I knew he was in love with her. And after about a week, probably even less than that, I was in love with her, too. Only, I was married. I had a kid. I had no business falling in love with Cybele or anyone who wasn't Jenny. But it happened, and I couldn't stop it. And Cybele was drawn to me, too-I still don't know why. I tried so hard to do the right thing, to stay away from her, but in the end I failed. I gave in, and do you know, I would've sold my soul to the devil to be free to love her, to spend my life with her. I loved her that much. It was that strong, that powerful."

He was silent then for a moment, and Kelly prayed the pills he'd taken were starting to work against his pain.

"Only I refused to admit it at first," Charles said quietly. "For more than a week, I let myself wallow in my failings-the fact that with my embracing this wondrous thing, this love, I hurt my wife, I hurt Joe. But I ended up hurting myself and Cybele even more, because I wasted the precious time we had together.

"Cybele once told me that on the day that her husband and son were killed, she made them breakfast, but she didn't take the time to sit down at the table and eat with them. She told me she would spend the rest of her life wishing she'd given herself those extra moments with them. She wished she'd watched her boy eat his porridge, wished she'd kissed her husband good-bye. She wished she'd held her son close instead of merely wiping his mouth with a wet cloth. She wished she'd told them she loved them before they left her kitchen and her life for good.

"She told me all that," Charles said to Kelly, "and I still didn't understand. It wasn't until it was too late . . ."

He was starting to relax. Kelly could tell from the way he was leaning against her. She helped him down, into his bed, beneath the covers, but she didn't leave. She sat with him, gently stroking his hair, holding his hand.

"It was the night we found out about the German plan to crush the Fifty-fifth." His voice was softer, weaker, but he seemed to want to keep on talking, and God, she wanted to hear this.

Her father, giving her advice of the heart. It was unbelievable. It was more than she'd ever hoped possible.

"I'd hurt my ankle again about a week before, and I was finally strong enough to travel. I was going to leave Ste.-Helene, cross the line, get back to the Fifty-fifth. Joe was going to take me as far as he could.

"I didn't say good-bye to Cybele. I think I probably knew if I'd so much as spoken to her, I would've admitted how much I loved her. I was afraid of making her promises I wouldn't be able to keep when sanity somehow returned." Charles smiled sadly at Kelly. "I fully expected sanity to return, but it never did. Never.

"So we left Ste.-Helene, Joe and I, just after dark. It was a clear night, a warm night, and we headed north and west along a trail through the woods both Joe and Cybele often used. Each step of the way, I remember thinking, how could I leave? How could I have gone without saying something? How could I return to Baldwin's Bridge without gazing at least once more upon her face? And I realized then that I must've somehow known. I must've done it on purpose, left without saying good-bye-so that I'd have to return to Ste.-Helene before I went back to the United States for good. I would see Cybele again. And I knew right then, at the lightness and joy in my heart at the thought of going back, that I loved her beyond all else. The house in Baldwin's Bridge-this house-that I'd spoken of and longed to return to so often throughout my ordeal in France, my fortune, my family, my wife, my life. It all meant nothing to me compared to the love I'd found with Cybele."

He was silent then, his eyes closed, and as much as Kelly wanted him to sleep, she found herself hoping he was only resting.

"What happened?" she whispered. "Why didn't you stay in France, Daddy?"

The pills he'd taken were working now, and working well. As he opened his eyes to look up at her, he seemed to look right through her, as if he could see all those years into his own past.

"We hadn't gone more than seven miles, Joe and I, when Cybele caught up with us. She'd been running all that way after us, but she still had the energy to slap me, hard, across the face, when she found us. I, of course, kissed her. She was so angry, but I kissed her, and I told her all that I'd realized. That I was coming back to Ste.-Helene after the war. That I loved her. That I would do anything for her. Even die."

Her father laughed softly, his eyes still so distant, and Kelly knew he saw her-his Cybele.

"She cried, and told me that was something she never wanted-for me to die for her. She would not allow that. Not ever." He shook his head. "Poor Joe. It must've been torture for him to stand there and listen to us declare our love-he loved her just as much as I did. Probably even more.

"But then Cybele told us why she'd followed. It wasn't to slap me across the face, although she'd been happy to get a chance to do that. She told us of a coming German counter-offensive. She had papers she'd been given, papers that spelled out the attack, that needed to get into Allied hands before dawn.

"So we went. The three of us. There were Germans everywhere as we moved toward the line. It was impossibly dangerous-I've never been that afraid."

His voice shook. "Then Joe was wounded, and things went from bad to worse. He slowed us down, but we couldn't leave him. How could we leave him? We were moving through a town-I never even knew its name, but the houses were all rubble, the streets impossible to pass through.

"We were trapped there," he said flatly. "We were hiding in the debris, hiding from a patrol of Germans. They were coming straight toward us. It was over. I knew it was over. But I had my gun drawn. I was going to take out as many of them as I possibly could, and dammit, at that moment, I could have done it. I could have killed them all, and we could have gotten away. The hell with the fact they had machine guns, and I had only that little Luger. But I didn't get a chance to try because Cybele, she handed me those papers and her gun, her Walther PPK. I didn't understand. God, I was so stupid."

There were tears in his eyes, and Kelly's heart was in her throat.