She didn’t mean to make Meredith cry. Claire didn’t want her sad. She was the only person willing to help her remember. “Shhh...I’m sorry”—“Please don’t cry.”

Suddenly, Meredith laughed.

Claire was sure she was having another delusion—people didn’t cry then laugh. Maybe Claire wasn’t really on a walk with her old friend. Maybe she’d soon feel that too familiar sharp pain in her arm. Settling to the ground, Claire waited. The people would come and then she’d wake up somewhere else. Closing her eyes, she hoped when the sharpness came, Tony would be waiting...

“Claire, you need to stand. You’ll get cold out here on the ground.” Meredith’s voice had regained the composure it momentarily lost.

Claire looked up, then side to side. Where were the people?

“I know you heard me. You spoke to me. Don’t worry, you won’t be in trouble, but we need to get back.” Meredith put out her hand. “Please, let’s go back.”

Claire reached up—the sensation of her hand in Meredith’s was real. At least, Claire believed it was.

You must stick to your conviction, but be ready to abandon your assumptions.

—Denis Waitley

Harry stared at his notes and relived his recent conversation with Agent Jackson from the Boston field office. Jackson was very specific—Anthony Rawlings was cooperating with the FBI and would not be apprehended at this time. When Harry questioned the attempt on his own life and the threat to his family, Jackson reminded him that there was no proof of a connection to Rawlings.

He was right—there was no proven connection. Could Harry’s gut be telling him he wanted Rawlings guilty, instead that the man was guilty? Maybe the whole beat down in the back alley accomplished the exact opposite of its intention. Since it occurred, Harry was more focused and determined to close the case. He needed assurance that everyone he cared about was safe. Surprisingly, that list of people—people whom he cared about—really cared about—was more static than he’d previously realized. Harry had family who’d been there for him and friends he could count on. Those people deserved his attention.

Everything became clearer the other day when the deputy director allowed Harry to speak with Ilona. Although he wanted to be assured of her safety, he was prepared for her tirade. The call progressed much differently than he’d anticipated.

“Ilona, are you all right?”

“Harry?”

“Ilona, I’m so sorry. I never imagined there’d be a connection from me to you. I thought you were safe.”

“I know...Ron knows.”

Harry couldn’t believe Ilona’s resolve. If only she’d been that strong when they were married; then again, maybe strength came with the love and support of a devoted spouse, something she now had in Ron. “Is Jillian all right?” he asked.

“She is.” Ilona chuckled. “She thinks we’re on vacation.”

Harry smiled.

“Do whatever you need to do, Harry. I have no idea who you’re after or what this is about—but if there’s a connection to us—please take care of it.”

“The threat was meant as a warning for me to back off.”

Ilona’s voice rang through the field office’s telephone. “I think I know you better than that—at least, I hope I do. You nail this person, whoever it is who’s threatening us. I know you can!”

“Thanks, Ilona. I expected you to chew me out for getting you into this.”

“You’re a few days late. I would’ve, but I’ve had time to think. Someone feels very threatened. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t resort to this. I’m fine and Jillian will forget this vacation as soon as it’s over.”

When they hung up, the indecision that had been looming like clouds around Harry since he’d re-entered the case evaporated. Claire was where she wanted to be—her message said so. There was a time he’d let his personal feelings get in the way. Now, it was strictly business. Claire Nichols was an informant and the granddaughter of an agent who’d been murdered. If the Boston office was confident in her safety then Harry would concentrate his talents where they were better utilized—interrogation and research. Currently, with his ability to communicate with Rawlings severed, research was his mode of operation.

Harry looked over his recent findings. An inspection of the bureau of motor vehicles for the state of New Jersey found twenty-two thousand plus blue Hondas registered in 1989. The search could be considerably refined if Harry could enter a year or model for the Honda—he couldn’t; however, thanks to Claire’s phone call, he had a name: Catherine Marie London. When he ran her name, he hit the jackpot—1987 Honda Prelude registered to Catherine Marie London. Further scrutiny of the registration revealed the color: blue.