White lies

Hell, why should it? He stared at himself in disgust. He hadn’t recognized Jay or Frank; why should he recognize his old face? The face he knew was the face he could see now, and it wouldn’t win any prizes. He looked as if he’d played too many football games without a helmet.

Still, the sensation lingered that he was on the brink of… something. It was there, just beyond his reach.

It nagged at him in little ways, like the ease with which he slipped his shoulder holster on, and the familiarity of the gun in his hand as he checked it, then slid it into place. The ease and familiarity had been there before, but now they were somehow different, as if the link between past and present were returning. Soon. It would happen soon.

The day was uneventful, but the feeling of anticipation didn’t leave him. They all met to eat breakfast; then he and Frank drove to the optical lab and picked up his glasses. On the way back he asked, "Have you found this Piggot guy yet?"

"Not yet. He surfaced a month ago, but he went underground again before we could get to him."

"Is he good?"

Frank hesitated. "Damn good. One of the best. His psychological profile says he’s a psychopath, but very controlled, very professional. His jobs are a matter of pride to him. That’s why he wants you. You screwed him up the way no one else ever had. You spoiled his job, killed his ’employees’ and managed to hit him hard enough that he had to go underground for months to recover."

"I may have hit him hard, but it wasn’t hard enough," Steve said remotely. "Do you have a picture of him?"

"Not with me. There’s only one. We got him with a telescopic lens, and it’s grainy. He’s about five-ten, a hundred and forty-five pounds, blond, forty-two years old. His left earlobe is missing, also courtesy of you. His reputation suffered." "Yeah, well, some days I’m a little cranky." That was vintage Lucas Stone. Frank felt the shock of it like a slap, but he kept his hands steady on the wheel. "Is your memory coming back?"

"Not yet," Steve lied. He could see Geoffrey Pig-got, whiplash thin, malignant, cold. Another face to go with a name.

He was very quiet on the drive back to the cabin. Jay glanced at him, but sunglasses hid his eyes, and she could read nothing in his expression. She still sensed the tension in him, just as she had the night before, during dinner. "Do you have another headache?" she finally asked. "No." Then he softened the bluntness of his answer by reaching over to rub the backs of his fingers against her jaw. "I feel okay."

"Did Frank say anything that’s bothering you?"

Briefly he considered the disadvantages of letting someone get so close to you that they could read your moods, but then he counted that battle well lost in Jay’s case, because as far as he was concerned, she couldn’t get close enough to suit him. And he hadn’t let her get close; it had simply happened.

"No. He told me a few things about the guy who tried to make me into beef stew–"

"Oh, gross!" she said, slapping his hand away, and he laughed at her.

”I was just thinking about him, that’s all."

After a moment she curled up in the seat and rested her head against the back. "I’ll be glad to get home."

He was in total agreement with that. They had been alone together for so long that this trip had almost brought on culture shock. Neon lights and traffic were a definite jolt to a system that was used to fir trees, snow and a deep, deep silence. Right now he would welcome a trip to civilization only if he and Jay were getting blood tests and a marriage license.

Blood tests.

Suddenly he felt alert, just as he’d felt a thousand times before when his life hung in the balance. Adrenaline spurted into his veins, and his heart began racing, but not as fast as his brain. A blood test. Damn it, it didn’t fit. Why had they needed Jay to identify him when they had all the means at hand? He was their agent. Granted, his fingerprints were gone, he’d been unconscious and his voice damaged, but they still had his blood type and dental records. It should have been easy enough to establish his identity. It followed, then, that they hadn’t needed Jay at all, but had definitely wanted her for some reason.

He went over what Jay had told him. They had wanted her to identity him because they couldn’t make a positive ID, and they’d needed to know if their agent had bought the farm, because Steve and this other guy had been caught in the explosion and one of them was dead. That meant there must have been two agents on location, but it wouldn’t have changed the fact that Frank had the means at hand to identify both of them. Supposedly he and this other agent had physically resembled each other, about the same height and weight, and with the same coloring. There still wasn’t any problem with identification, even if he stretched coincidence and allowed that they both might have had the same blood type. That still left dental records.

Damn, he felt like a fool. Why hadn’t he seen this before? They had wanted Jay in this for some reason, but identification hadn’t been it. What kind of scheme was Frank running?

Think. He had to think. He felt as if he were trying to put a puzzle together without all the pieces, so no matter how he moved things around they still didn’t fit. If he could just remember, damn it!

Why would Frank lie to Jay? Why concoct the story that he and the other agent so closely resembled each other? Why insist that he needed her at all?

Why did they need Jay?

Voices tumbled in on him. "Congratulations, Mr. Stone"… "I’m glad you’re back, son"… "Unca Luke! Unca Luke!" Stone… son… Unca Luke… son… Luke… Stone…

Luke Stone. His hands jerked on the steering wheel. He felt as if he’d been hit in the chest. Luke Stone. Lucas Stone. Damn Frank Payne to hell! His name was Lucas Stone!