Fear Familiar Bundle Read online

  "Maybe not for you, but it would certainly make me feel better," he pointed out. "I'm not moving into your life, I'm simply going to spend a few hours on your sofa. I'm not going to interfere."

  "It's just that…"

  "You don't have to explain, Eleanor." He took both of her hands and held them to his chest. "It's just that you've been attacked, and someone did break in here. Until we get to the bottom of this, I'd feel better if I knew you were safe." The truth of the matter was that if Eleanor was as innocent as she appeared, he might have jeopardized her!

  "Peter, I don't— "

  The telephone shrilled.

  "I can't believe this," she said, picking up the receiver. "I've had more phone calls and visitors the last twenty-four hours than I've had all year. Hello." She spoke crisply.

  "Bad mood, darling?"

  It was a confident, familiar voice. She'd heard those words so many times before, spoken with just that same tone of arrogance. She tried to reply, but no words came out.

  "Come on, Eleanor. Don't play games. We have a lot to talk about. So much has happened. To both of us."

  "Who is this?" she demanded.

  "Take a guess. Or better yet, want to make a bet?" Rich laughter spilled into the earpiece of her telephone. "You were never one to gamble, were you?"

  Eleanor slammed down the phone as hard as possible.

  Chapter Four

  Eleanor awoke to a strange sense of warmth at the small of her back. Bad dreams of a threatening and well-remembered voice had kept her tossing and turning most of the night. She knew the voice. She'd obeyed it, though unwillingly, but she couldn't place whom it belonged to. Lying on her right side, she opened her eyes. Something warm and heavy was pressed against her.

  "Familiar!" she guessed.

  "Meowww," came the sleepy reply.

  "So now you've invaded my bed! What next?" She turned to pet the sleepy cat and then quietly slid from beneath the covers. "It's obvious that you believe you belong here," she said, slipping into a floor-length robe that matched her purple gown.

  She opened the blinds to a beautiful morning, such a contrast to the dark fears she'd fought all night. Peter hadn't believed her when she'd tried to convince him that the midnight call had been a practical joke. Her fear had been too audible in her voice, she knew. But how could she tell him that the voice sounded like…a dead man? The answer to that was simple. She wasn't going to tell him. Carter Wells was dead. The phone call was someone's idea of a practical joke, or at worst, a little scene of revenge for one of Carter's past sins. Like wrecking her apartment and frightening her with the photograph. When the joker got tired, it would all be over.

  Taking care to be quiet, she padded down the hall. She could tell by the way the sun came through the window that it was late morning. At the entrance to the living room she paused. Peter was sound asleep on the sofa, one leg dangling from beneath the blanket. His brown hair was rumpled, his lips full and sensual in sleep. She tiptoed past him into the kitchen to make coffee.

  As the aroma of the rich Columbian brew wafted through the small kitchen, she tried to order her thoughts. How much would she tell the CIA agent? It wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes to reopen her past. But what was the purpose? When she was married to Carter, she'd known virtually nothing of his business. Now she had left even those shreds behind. And no matter how she tried, she couldn't visualize her dead husband as some counter-espionage person involved in treason. To be sure, Carter had always been an opportunist, but a traitor? Never.

  Familiar strolled into the kitchen. His paw grazed the refrigerator door, but he refrained from his morning yowling.

  Eleanor absently gave him the last of the snapper she'd saved, stroking his back as he ate. All her life she'd been softhearted, developing strong attachments to loved ones and pets. Out of the mess her life had become in the last forty-eight hours, Familiar was the good part. And Familiar had brought Peter into her life. Eleanor frowned. She still wasn't certain if that part was good or bad.

  She poured a cup of coffee and started back to her bedroom, then remembered the morning paper. She loved Sunday's Washington Post. Her colleagues would laugh at her, but she took a positive delight in the horoscopes and advice columns. She cracked the front door and reached out a hand.

  "Ms. Duncan?"

  The unexpected voice nearly scared her to death. "Mr. Rousel?" She saw the agent standing across the hallway, his gray suit as immaculately pressed as if he'd just come from the cleaners. "You startled me." She stepped into the hall, suddenly too aware of Peter's sleeping body on her sofa.

  "Could we step inside?" He nodded toward her apartment. "My questions are somewhat delicate."

  "No, I'm afraid we can't," she said. She could have given him a very good reason— Peter— but didn't. "I honestly don't have any information that could help you. There's nothing in my past that would interest the CIA."

  "There's nothing you want to tell me?" he asked. "If you're an accomplice…"

  The word triggered a strong reaction in Eleanor. "I've assisted no one in any crime, Mr. Rousel. Not this year, not nine years ago when my husband was killed. There's nothing I can help you with."

  "I didn't mean to upset you," he said softly. "We're only interested in protecting you. Your husband was involved in some very serious things in Colorado. A project, maybe you've heard of it. Code One Orange?" He watched her intently as he spoke.

  Eleanor shook her head. The man's accusations were ridiculous. "Carter gambled, he lied and he cheated at every opportunity, but I can't believe he was involved in covert activities," she said.

  "If an agent couldn't hide his work, he wouldn't be a very good agent, now would he?" Rousel countered softly. "Believe me, he was definitely involved. And that involvement has extended through the years. Until now."

  The fear that struck Eleanor was so sudden and so intense that she couldn't respond at all. What had Carter been doing? And did the CIA actually suspect her of criminal behavior, of working against the government?

  "Do you have any pets, say a guard dog, to look out for you?"

  Eleanor's burst of temper was gone, and his question made her stomach twist. "The building doesn't allow pets."

  "Not even cats?" he pressed.

  A sense of dread crept over her. "Not even cats are allowed. I've never heard that they're good guard animals, anyway." Her fingertips began to tingle.

  "I guess I just have cats on my mind. Several cats were stolen from the research lab. One of them was black. We'd like to get him back."

  "What type of research was the cat involved in?" She felt sick. If Alva Rousel found out about Familiar, he'd take him back.

  "Psychological." He stared at her.

  "I thought that type of testing was more effective with people?"

  "I'm not a psychologist." He smiled, taking the sting from his words. "During the break-in, one of the lab workers was seriously injured. His eyes. He thought it was a woman who attacked him."

  "I'm sorry," Eleanor said. "But I can't help you with any of that. In fact— " she picked up the paper "I haven't even had a chance to read about it in the Post."

  "If I've done my job properly, it won't be in the newspaper," he countered. "I'm not overstating the issue when I say that the research I'm investigating is of the most vital kind. Interference, from anyone, could be viewed as an act of…treason." He softened the words with another smile. "I know you're not that type of person, Ms. Duncan. I don't want to intimate that you are." His smile widened further, revealing white teeth. "I don't even believe you're an accomplice. But I do want you to understand the seriousness of this business."

  "I'm not the type of person who breaks into buildings," Eleanor said, her fingers wrapping the newspaper into a tighter bundle. "I don't speed, I don't litter. I don't have friends who do those things. In fact, I'm a model citizen. I don't even cheat on my taxes. I can't help you." She opened the door and started inside.

  "We're not the only people loo
king for the stolen items."

  Rousel's quiet words stopped her cold. She turned back, feeling herself grow pale as she spoke. "What?"

  "I don't want to frighten you unnecessarily, but you should know that dangerous elements are involved in this case. We suspect a faction of a terrorist organization, ruthless people, completely without conscience. Some of them with a long past. Some of them you might know." He stared directly into her eyes.

  "I can't help you," Eleanor repeated.

  "They may have infiltrated an animal rights organization to use the group to obtain their own goals. I'd hate to see an innocent woman caught up in something tragic." He rubbed the barely visible stubble on his face and gave her a sheepish grin. "I slept outside so I could watch your building. It wasn't all that comfortable, but I had the feeling that you might be in danger."

  "What kind of danger?" She couldn't completely cover the panic she felt growing. She was on the verge of telling the man about her midnight phone call and the photograph.

  "I can't tell you, ma'am. I shouldn't have told you as much as I did. If I seemed pushy, it was because I was worried. This is a big case, top level."

  "Thank you," she murmured, feeling a need to get inside her door, to turn the lock and seek the safety of her small apartment. The lesson learned at the feet of Carter Wells, came back to her— trust no one.

  "I'll keep an eye on you, at least for a while," he said, giving her a reassuring smile. "Just in case."

  She hurried inside, forcing herself to breath deeply, calmly, to fight the panic that threatened to turn her knees to Jell-O. An employee of the CIA had clearly implied that she was in grave danger.

  "Your coffee got cold." Peter came out of the kitchen, his hair still tousled. "I poured you a fresh cup." He held the steaming mug toward her.

  "Thanks," she managed. She knew her face was pale and she could still feel her heart beating a mile a minute. "That CIA agent was waiting in the hall to talk with me."

  "What did Rousel have to say so early in the morning?" Peter sipped his coffee and unobtrusively watched her. She was frightened again.

  "He said someone broke into a research lab and stole Familiar and some other cats, and that whoever did it was dangerous. He said I could be in danger."

  Eleanor looked down at the floor as she talked, and Peter knew it was because she wanted to hide her fears. He could see it in the way her chin trembled slightly. In her hands as she clutched the coffee cup.

  "Does he know who broke into the lab?" This could be the information he had to get, if she wasn't the one.

  "I think he thinks I did." Her brown eyes were round with concern.

  "How about a Denver omelet for breakfast?" he suggested. "I found some oranges in the fridge and squeezed them, because it seems to me that last night you made reference to a nice tall glass of juice and— " he pointed to the newspaper under her arm "— some reading material." He could question her later. She was too upset, too close to snapping.

  "You have a really miraculous way of rescuing me from painful conversations," she said softly. "You always know the perfect moment to change the subject."

  "Hey, I was just getting hungry," he said with a grin. "And I do have to brag a little. I'm pretty handy in the kitchen."

  The knife-edge of fear had begun to diminish with Peter's easy bantering. She filled him in on most of Rousel's questions. "I know it's crazy, but somehow I think this cat is mixed up in all of this. I didn't exactly tell Mr. Rousel about Familiar," she admitted, following him into the kitchen.

  "He asked about the cat?" Peter's interest stirred. That cat held a direct link with Arnold Evans. The catheter proved it.

  "Well, he asked about a black cat. He said one was stolen from the lab, one that was being used in psychological testing. He didn't seem that interested in getting the cat back." She held her breath through the lie— she didn't want Peter to pressure her into giving Familiar back. It was better if he didn't think along those lines. "I got the impression Mr. Rousel was more interested in finding who broke into the lab."

  "That would make sense. If a lab was broken into, then I suppose a federal law enforcement agency would be interested in apprehending the criminals," Peter said, cracking four eggs into a bowl. "As I said earlier, Familiar doesn't look any the worse for wear. A lot of those animals are terribly…abused. Maybe he isn't important in the research. Maybe when they find out who broke in, they'll forget about him."

  Eleanor took a knife from the drawer and started to cut up green peppers for the omelet. "But Rousel implied that someone else might be interested in the cat." She swallowed. "He even went so far as to say a faction of a terrorist organization." And implied that her dead husband had some connection with the group! The phone call came back to her and the knife slipped through the pepper, missing her finger by a hair. At least it made sense now why someone was pretending to be Carter.

  Peter dropped the whisk into the eggs. "Eleanor!" He took the knife from her hand and put it onto the counter. "Terrorist organization?" This was a little more than he'd bargained for.

  "That's what he said."

  "Well, I wouldn't let this get out of hand in your imagination, Eleanor. Rousel may be a federal agent, but he could also have a tendency to exaggerate."

  "That's true," she agreed, slightly relieved. "Why would a terrorist group liberate a black tom cat?"

  "Now that's the sanest comment I've heard this morning," he said. "Let's just enjoy breakfast and hope by Monday morning all of this has been resolved." He forced a smile, but felt his anger boiling beneath the surface. The CIA agent must be an idiot to talk to her in such a way.

  "I hope my past hasn't come back to haunt me," she said as she took silverware from another drawer; there was definitely a haunted look on her face, he observed.

  "No, I'm sure it hasn't."

  As Peter poured the eggs into the pan, Eleanor set the table. In a few moments they were ready to eat.

  "The juice is great." She took another long drink from the chilled glass. "And the omelet, too."

  "What's on your schedule for this afternoon?" he asked.

  Eleanor grinned apologetically. "Actually, I often spend Sunday afternoon in the library or in my office. Betty Gillette, a colleague of mine, and I usually wind up working. Boring, huh?"

  "Yes," he said without hesitation. "How about some Christmas shopping?" After all that had happened, Peter wanted to keep her in sight as much as possible. She didn't think her research was related to the recent attacks, but he wasn't so sure now. In fact he wasn't sure of anything— except that he had to find Evans. That particular chore was looming larger and larger in his mind.

  "I haven't even begun to buy my gifts," Eleanor confessed. "It wouldn't hurt me to pick up some things and get them in the mail."

  "Good, then it's settled. We'll give Saint Nick a hand with the gift list. Maybe we'll even pick up a little something for that black fur ball on the sofa."

  "Yeah," Eleanor agreed. "An alarm clock. I refuse to let him sleep all day while I have to work."

  * * *

  THE STORES were crowded and the lines long, but in Peter's company, Eleanor didn't mind the inconveniences. They picked up several items for respective family members and then sauntered through a pet supply shop.

  "How about a red collar for Familiar?" she asked, holding up an item with an abundance of rhinestones.

  Peter shook his head. "I don't think Familiar's the kind of cat who would appreciate such a gift. Catnip might be more up his alley. Or maybe even his own alley, if you're feeling plush."

  Eleanor laughed out loud. Peter was delightful. "I suppose you're right. Catnip it is."

  While she stood in the checkout line, Peter went to look at a display of magazines. Eleanor was drawing her billfold from her purse when she felt someone staring at her back. She forced herself to turn slowly, casually. Not twenty feet away across the crowded store was Alva Rousel. He was engrossed in a wind-up toy of a jumping cat, but Eleanor knew
he'd been watching her.

  She felt like abandoning her purchases, but instead put them onto the counter. The routine checkout seemed to take hours. Bag in hand, she hurried through the store until she found Peter.

  "The man from the CIA was here, watching me," she told him. She couldn't help rushing her words together; her heart was pounding.

  "He said he was going to keep an eye on you." Peter was completely unruffled. "I'm glad to see he's actually doing it. I hope he's better at watching than he is at keeping his mouth shut." He grinned. "Don't you feel better, knowing that the CIA is protecting you?"

  "You're right," she said, pulling herself together at his casual tone. "But I was buying all of these cat toys— after I said cats weren't allowed in my building."

  "Eleanor, my dear," Peter said patiently, "the truth is, you could have fifteen pet cats. Or you could be purchasing the toys for someone else's cat. Or you could be a seriously kinky lady with a passion for catnip and stuffed birds on elastic strings."

  Eleanor laughed and the last of the tension was blown away. "I've never known anyone like you," she said. "You're immune to panic."

  "Don't count on it. It's just that I— " he touched the top of her nose "— don't have a guilty conscience about lying to the CIA. How about an ice cream?"

  She followed him out of the shop onto the brisk Washington street. "No ice cream for me. It's freezing! Besides, I can't wait to get home and give Familiar his presents."

  "I do need to spend some time at the clinic," Peter said. "I like to check all of the animals, just to be on the safe side."

  "I like that," Eleanor said. "I like it that you care."

  "Then I'll drop you off at your place, and I'll take care of my work. Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you to a movie? We could find one we want to see or rent one."

  Eleanor didn't feel pushed at all. She'd had a few misgivings about spending the evening alone, and Peter was a fun companion. "An old black and white with Cary Grant in it?"

  "The Bishop's Wife?"