Express Male

He stood silently, moved fluidly to the end of the stage where steps appeared, climbed them with clear intention. She remained seated on the bench as he approached from stage right, her mouth going dry at the sight of him, her pulse racing faster with every step he took. Her dream self remembered now that he had attended all her performances, always seated in the same place, watching her with a hazy half smile playing about his lips. He always seemed to enjoy the music—or something—but not once had he applauded with the rest of the audience. Only tonight, when he was alone.

Now he strode toward her with that same half smile curving the corners of his mouth. When he drew close enough, he reached for her and Marnie stood, hooking her fingers over his, thinking he meant to walk her off the stage. But he twined their fingers more tightly together and kept coming toward her, pulling her to himself, sweeping her into his arms and covering her mouth with his, completely and with utter possession.

She gasped as her head jerked off her arm. She felt the cool metal table beneath her hand, blinked at the bright light overhead. She’d dozed off, she realized. She’d been dreaming. But when she turned her head toward the door, she saw the man from the empty auditorium standing there, as if he’d exited her dream with her. Instead of a tuxedo, he wore the dark suit in which she’d last seen him. And instead of the slicked-back, Rudolph Valentino hairstyle, his dark-blond tresses were dry. But they were creased and untidy, as if he’d been running his fingers restlessly through them. The swelling had gone down on his lip some, and the abrasion on his face had faded to a less angry red smudged by a faint bruise. In spite of the injuries, his was still a very compelling face.

How long had she been asleep? she wondered, pushing the thought away. What time was it? When she looked at her watch, she saw that nearly seven and a half hours had passed since her shift had ended at Lauderdale’s. Would that she had dreamed everything that had happened since then, she’d be waking up in her own bed this morning, readying herself for another day’s work.

Straightening in her chair, she met faux Randy’s gaze and asked, “So what’s your code name? I mean, I have a few I could use for you, but none of them is worth uttering in polite society. Then again, the society I’ve experienced tonight has been anything but polite.”

“I owe you an apology, Ms. Lundy,” he said, addressing her by her real name. And in an amazingly courteous voice, too. She wasn’t sure which surprised her more.

“Yeah, I’ll say you do,” she retorted before she could stop herself. Reminding herself that snarkiness wasn’t going to get her home any faster, she gentled her tone some before adding, “What brings on this sudden change of heart?”

He left the door open as he approached the table, something he hadn’t done all night. “We ran a check on your name,” he said, “and we realized you are indeed who you say you are. Marnie Lundy of 207 Mockingbird Lane in Cleveland, Ohio, and that you’ve been an employee of Lauderdale’s for two years, just as you said.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you run a check like that the minute I got here?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “We were convinced you were Lila Moreau trying to pull a fast one. We didn’t have any reason to believe you were who you said you were. So we didn’t see the point.”

“And what made you change your mind?” she asked, still skeptical. For such a supersecret sophisticated organization, they sure did seem like a bunch of boneheads.

“The woman who spoke to you a little while ago was a psychiatrist we brought in to examine you when we thought you were Lila. After speaking with you at length, she realized—and assured us—that you’re neither crazy, nor pretending and that you are precisely who you claim to be.”

Marnie nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. Even though she was still suspicious of the sudden turnaround. “So does this mean I can go home?” she asked hopefully.

He nodded. “I’ll drive you myself.”

His offer, too, surprised her. “That won’t be necessary,” she assured him.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

“Um, no,” she admitted.

“And you haven’t had any sleep tonight,” he pointed out.

Well, except for that one little nap with the weird dream about ol’ blue eyes there kissing her, which, now that she thought about it, was really a nightmare, except for the fact that it had actually been kind of nice….

She sighed. She really did need to get out and date more if she was thinking a dream kiss from a virtual stranger who’d abducted and terrified her was kind of nice. Even Lila probably didn’t have anyone like that in her little black book.

“You haven’t had any sleep, either,” she said.

“I can go without it. Something tells me you can’t.”

Yeah, like the fact that he’d walked in on her fast asleep. She hoped she hadn’t been drooling. Or making those soft murmuring sounds of satisfaction out loud that she’d been making in her dream when he kissed her.

“So when can we go?” she asked.

“Any time you’re ready,” he told her, surprising her again.

“But don’t you have to…”

“What?”

“Debrief me or something?”

She remembered after asking the question that she was indeed wearing briefs, a realization that made her hope “debrief” really was the word spy types used in such situations, and not just in movies and on TV. Otherwise, things could get a little embarrassing.

When he smiled at her the way he did, she had a feeling he was thinking about the same kind of debriefing she was. Which was bad, because she wasn’t thinking about the movie and TV kind of debriefing just then. He really was very handsome. Even if he was a big jerk.

“I don’t need to debrief you, Ms. Lundy,” he said.

Ah, well. Story of her life.

She realized then that although he knew her by not one but two names—even if one of them was wrong—she didn’t know even one of his. And, gosh, a girl always wanted to know the name of the man who abducted her and made her life hell for a night. So she asked, “What’s your name?”

His smile fell some at that. “Why? Are you planning to write a letter of complaint about me?”

“And send it where?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about you guys except for your being under Homeland Security.” Which led her to another thought. “The woman who spoke to me said your organization is top secret and no one’s supposed to know about you. Aren’t you afraid that by letting me go home, I’ll spend the day on the phone alerting the media to my experience and your existence?”

“They won’t believe you,” he said with complete conviction. “Except for the media outlets who publish stories about alien Elvises and women who marry Bigfoot, and we’ve already been written up by them dozens of times. Those stories just reinforce how we can’t possibly exist anywhere outside someone’s delusion. Besides, if we find out you’re talking about us, we have ways of making you stop.”

Her blood went cold at the matter-of-fact way he said that. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yeah.”

“With what?”

He chuckled at her expression. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill you or make you disappear. But you’ll find out what all the ruckus is about identity theft. We’ll ruin your credit and tie up your finances and create debt for you where you never had it before. We’ll make you lose your job and your home and everything else we can think of. It’s not a good idea to piss off Uncle Sam.”

Unbelievable, she thought. But, alas, totally believable.

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” she vowed.

“Good.”

“So then you won’t mind telling me your name,” she added, not sure why it was so important for her to know.

He hesitated for a moment, then, “Noah Tennant,” he told her. “Code name Sinatra.”

Of course, she thought. With those eyes, what else would his code name be?

“Now if you’re ready to go,” he said, “we can leave anytime.”

“I’m ready now,” she told him. Actually, she was ready seven and a half hours ago. “But before we leave…?” she added, her voice trailing off before finishing the question.

“Yes?”

“Could you tell me if there’s a ladies’ room nearby?”

THE EASTERN SKY was stained with orange and gold by the time Lila directed Noah to an older section of Cleveland and a neighborhood of tidy homes built between the two world wars. The driveway into which she told him to turn belonged to a red-brick bungalow whose porch spanned the front of the house, and whose broad front windows sported window boxes awaiting spring planting. Terra-cotta pots, likewise empty of flowers this time of year, lined the concrete shelf wrapping the porch and a white wicker swing hung at one end. A quartet of hanging Boston ferns dotted the front, suggesting the owner had been impatient for something to grow, and yellow bug lamps glowed on each side of the front door.

Noah wondered who lived here and why Lila was pretending it was her. She could no more nurture plants—or feel comfortable in such a blatantly cozy house—than he could. He hoped she didn’t try to go inside. It would be difficult to explain the situation to the owners.

“Thanks for driving me home,” she said from the passenger seat as he dropped her car keys into her hand.

“You’re sure you have a ride coming?”

“I’m sure they’re right behind us,” he lied.

“Well…thanks again,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I appreciate it.”

She sounded exhausted, which he was certain she was after being interrogated all night, and glad to be home, which he was certain she was not, since this couldn’t possibly be her home. Nor could she be happy to be anywhere in his vicinity. He wondered how much longer it would take her to crack.

“I’ll follow you in,” he offered. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

She looked vaguely alarmed by his offer. Which she naturally would be. If he followed her in, she’d have to admit she didn’t live here. And she wouldn’t be able to run away if he stayed too close.

“That’s okay,” she said as she pushed open the door.

“I’ll be fine. It’s a safe neighborhood. And I should know, since I grew up in this house.”

Noah smiled indulgently. Of course she’d grown up in this house. It just screamed ruthless agent Lila Moreau. “Humor me,” he said. “I feel bad about what we put you through tonight, and I want to make sure you get all the way home safely.”

Still looking wary, she said, “All right.”

Her easy acquiescence put him on alert, and he quickly scrambled out of the car before she had a chance to escape. But instead of running, she made her way up the front walk, flipping through her keys until she found the one she wanted. Without hesitation, she strode up the stairs, shoved the key into the lock of the front door and twisted it.

To Noah’s amazement, the door swung open and Lila went in, turning to wait for him before closing it behind them both. Two cats—one black, one with orange stripes—came running to greet her, both skidding to a halt when they saw Noah.

“It’s all right,” she cooed to the cats, dropping down to a crouch. “He won’t hurt you. And I’m sure he was sincere when he told me how bad he feels for being so mean to me tonight.”

That last was spoken half over her shoulder, and Noah almost smiled. Even delusional—if indeed that was what she was—the true Lila kept creeping out.

Her word was evidently good enough for the cats, because both scurried forward again, bumping their heads into her knees, her hands, her hips. They obviously knew her well and were quite enamored of her. And she was clearly attached to them, laughing as she scrubbed them behind their ears and murmuring soothing words to explain her overnight absence.

Noah’s mouth dropped open in amazement at witnessing the scene. Lila purring to cats? Lila showing affection? What the hell was going on? Just what had she been doing for the past five months?

He drove his gaze around the room, taking in the furnishings that were as snug and pleasant, and as pre-World War II, as the house itself. An overstuffed flowered sofa and chair took up much of the right half of the living room, a white fireplace beyond it bisecting two sets of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed full of books. The mantelpiece played host to crystal candlesticks and cut-glass bowls, an antique clock and framed photographs whose subjects were indeterminate from this distance. Some were black-and-white, appearing to be quite old.

To the left of the furnishings, French doors opened into what appeared to be a dining room, though Noah could only see part of it from where he stood—an expanse of wall covered in old-looking wallpaper of dogwood blossoms, the corner of a lace-covered table, the end of a china cabinet filled with enough china to make Martha Stewart look like a slacker.

Scanning to the left side of the living room, he saw a baby grand piano sitting in front of a big bay window whose window seat was upholstered by a different kind of floral fabric from the sofa. Artfully scattered throw pillows covered one end, while sheet music was stacked neatly at the other. A feminine-looking briefcase sat on the floor near the piano, and sheets of lined paper, some filled with handwritten music—were stacked on the bench.

Directly in front of him was a long hallway, the hardwood floor, like the floors of the living room, covered by a worn floral rug. But where the walls in the living room were the dark blue of a twilit sky, the walls of the hallway turned to butter yellow. Taking a few steps to the left, Noah saw that the hall walls were also covered on both sides by scores of framed photographs.

Whoever lived in this house seemed to have a long history here. And whoever lived here was obviously very comfortable living here. He looked at Lila again. She was standing now, laughing at the cats who were still twining around her ankles. And somehow, she looked perfectly at home.

No, Noah told himself. No way.

“So you grew up in this house?” he asked carefully.

She looked up at him with a puzzled expression. “Lived here my whole life,” she told him. “Except for my time at OSU. My father had retired by the time I graduated, and he was getting on in years, so I moved back home with him to live.”

“And you’re a music teacher?” he asked, remembering how adamant she had been about that.

“For my livelihood, I am,” she said. “And I work at Lauderdale’s to bring in a little extra. My real love is song-writing and composing. I haven’t sold anything yet, but I haven’t been pursuing publication for very long.”

Noah nodded slowly, his mind working fast. Maybe what Gestalt said was true. Maybe Lila really did believe she was this Marnie Lundy person. Maybe she’d believed it for the past five months. She appeared to have been living in this house for some time, and the cats obviously knew her well. When he got back to OPUS, he’d run a check on the name Marnie Lundy and see what came up. See if maybe she just appeared out of thin air five months ago.

What could have happened to Lila to drive her over the edge this way? he wondered. It must have been something heinous to have messed with someone as strong—and as dangerous—as she was.

“This house reminds me of the one where I grew up,” he said.

“Really?”

No, not really. He’d grown up in the lap of luxury. His parents had employed servants who lived in bigger houses than this. “Yeah,” he lied. “Except I spent my childhood in Cincinnati.” That much, at least, was true.

“That’s a wonderful city,” she said. “I have a good friend from college who lives down there and we still try to get together once a month, either here or there.”

Of course she did, Noah thought, marveling at just how deeply a person could clinically delude herself.

“Do you mind if I have a look around?” he asked. “It would almost be like revisiting my childhood.”

She smiled at that. “Go ahead. I have to feed Edith and Henry.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You named your cats Edith and Henry?”

“Actually, my father did. After Edith Wharton and Henry James. He was a professor of literature, specializing in the Gilded Age.”

Of course he was, Noah thought. Naturally Lila, who was the offspring of a showgirl hooker and didn’t even know the identity of her father, would create such a fantasy father when she was losing her mind. It made perfect sense.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep Edith and Henry from their dinner. Breakfast,” he quickly corrected himself when he remembered what time it was.

Lila took off through the dining room with the cats running alongside her, and Noah headed into the hallway to check out the gallery of photographs. Most of them were old black-and-whites of people he didn’t recognize. But others, not quite as old, made his stomach go tight.

Lila. As a girl. As a teenager. In this very house. In one shot, she was wearing a graduation cap and gown, even though Noah knew for a fact—or, at least, had thought he knew for a fact—that she never formally graduated from high school. But she didn’t look old enough to be in college in the photo. And there was a man standing beside her, bearded, bespectacled, old enough to be her father—maybe even her grandfather—with one arm slung proudly over her shoulder.

In another shot, an adolescent Lila was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake that said Happy 13th Birthday…somebody. Noah couldn’t make out the name from the camera angle. In another photograph, she was elementary-school aged, standing in the backyard with the garden hose arcing water above her, wringing wet and laughing. In yet another, she looked to be in middle school, wearing a full-length gown with a corsage on her wrist, a dark-suited boy the same age standing awkwardly beside her.

And then another, much more recent photo of Lila, at a time when she should have been working for OPUS. Instead, she was sitting on the piano bench not a dozen steps from where Noah stood, a Christmas tree behind her, a glass of what looked like eggnog in her hand and fake reindeer antlers lit with red and green lights on her head. Not at all the sort of whimsy in which Lila would indulge.

Panic rose in Noah’s chest, and he strode back into the living room, to the photographs on the mantelpiece, hoping they offered more insight. But his gaze strayed instead to the bookcase, falling on a row of high-school yearbooks. Hastily, he jerked down the one closest to him, dated 1987. He did some quick mental math. Lila would have been a freshman, so he opened it to look for that class. His attention went instead to the plethora of handwriting on the inside cover, dozens of different signatures, all looking like teenaged writing, all messages inscribed to “Marnie.”

Heat splashed through his belly. Shoving pages to the left, he found the freshman class and looked not for Moreau, but for Lundy. Sure enough, Marnie was there, looking just like Lila would have looked when she was in ninth grade. Except that, knowing what he did of Lila’s life when she was that age, her expression would have been sullen, angry and scared. Marnie Lundy fairly beamed from the page, an obviously happy, well-adjusted kid.

Noah pulled down the next yearbook and found Marnie Lundy as a sophomore, and the inside covers once again obscured by good wishes from what seemed to be the entire class. The next two yearbooks held more of the same.

“Agent Tennant, what are you doing?”

Noah spun around at the question and saw Lila—no, Marnie, he made himself admit—framed by her dining-room doors, staring at him as if she were very, very sorry she had allowed him into her house.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. And then he laughed anxiously. Boy, was that an understatement. “I mean…” He faltered, studying her again. She was Lila. But…not. She looked like her, sounded like her, even moved like her. But she wasn’t her.

“You’re not Lila,” he said, knowing the declaration must sound ridiculous to her. “You really are Marnie Lundy.”

“I know that,” she said, her voice edged with impatience. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all night. I thought you realized it. I thought that was why you let me come home.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t realize it until this minute,” he told her. “I thought I was humoring a delusional agent who would break under the pressure of having to confront her delusion.”

“You thought I was crazy Lila?” she translated.

He expelled a single, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Instead, I find that you’re…”

She settled her hands on her hips, shifting her weight to one foot, and glared at him. It was a gesture he’d seen Lila perform too many times to count. But it wasn’t Lila doing it this time.

Then another thought struck him. He and Zorba and Gestalt had told this woman all kinds of things tonight about OPUS, convinced that they were telling Lila things she already knew. Marnie Lundy knew some pretty sensitive stuff about the organization and Lila’s disappearance. She knew Noah’s name. She knew his code name. She’d seen their operation, if only from a limited standpoint. If she tried very hard, she might even be able to retrace her steps to the cabin in the woods.

“I’m what?” she demanded.

But Noah honestly had no idea what to say. Except maybe, “You’re not the woman I’m looking for.”

IT WAS MIDMORNING before Marnie’s head finally stopped feeling fuzzy over everything that had happened in the past twelve hours. In the meantime, Noah Tennant had requested and inspected as many of her personal documents as she could pull from her filing cabinet, from the deed to her house to her and her father’s wills to the checking account on which she had written thousands of checks over the past ten years. He hadn’t said much as he’d reviewed the documents, had only asked questions that she’d done her best to answer. But two interrogations in such a short span of time had left her feeling a tad raw emotionally, and coupled with the lack of sleep, she was growing more than a little irritable. Even a steady stream of herbal tea hadn’t been enough to soothe her. On the other hand, the coffee she’d fed to Agent Tennant had only seemed to sharpen his mind, something else that kind of ticked her off.

How could he look so cool and collected—and dammit, so handsome—when she felt like a world-class frump with only one half-functioning brain cell? And why, of all the things that should or could have been circling through her head at the moment, was it his voice of a few hours ago she kept hearing?

You’re not the woman I’ve been looking for.

Story of my life, she thought as she watched him on the other side of her dining-room table, studying her social security card again. She was never the woman men were looking for. Not in the long run. She was always too…something…for them. Too serious. Too dedicated. Too quiet. Too old-fashioned. Too focused. Too straitlaced. Too stuffy.

Not a single charge was true. Yes, she was all of those things from time to time. But never to a point where that was all she was. And she was other things, too, things men just couldn’t seem to see. She could be fun when the situation called for it. She could. And she could be witty and adventurous and outrageous, too. Really. She could. Honest. She’d just never met any men who made her want to be those things, that was all. The men she met were always too…something…for her, too.

“We’ll still have to run a check on you,” Agent Tennant said now, not looking up from her social security card. She’d noticed he’d come back to that little scrap of cardboard several times, as if something about it still bothered him. “There’s a lot I can learn about you from our sources that I can’t from all this.” He gestured toward the piles of paper records fanned out across the table.

Marnie narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you telling me you know more about me than I know myself?”

He was smiling when he looked up at her, but there was nothing happy in the expression. “Well, not at the moment. But by day’s end…”

She shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said for a second time since meeting him. But again, unfortunately, it was easy to believe.