The Interpreter. RaeAnne Thayne

sense told her her body needed food to heal and she had a feeling her mind wouldn’t heal until her body did.

      “I am a little hungry,” she admitted. “And I must say, your roast beef smells delicious.”

      “What you need is some food in your stomach and then a hot bath with a good book. I’ve got just the thing for you. Come on now, Auntie Pam will take care of you.”

      The woman looped her arm through Jane’s and headed across the room. Left with little choice in the matter—and feeling rather as if she was caught in the whirl of a typhoon—Jane followed her with one last, bewildered look toward Mason.

      Chapter 4

      The Bittercreek ranch office was just down a short hallway from the kitchen. As Mason held the phone to his ear, waiting eternally on hold, he could hear through the open doorway the soft, musical voices of women and the occasional higher sounds of Miriam and Charlie chiming in.

      He heard a small laugh, strangled before it really began, and realized it was Miriam’s voice. How long had it been since she’d even attempted a laugh? he wondered. She had been a silent, watchful wraith since the day he’d showed up at her school in Butuan with the grim news about her parents.

      He wanted fiercely to hear her give in to it. What would he give to hear her giggle and laugh like any other nine-year-old girl? Would that day ever come? She sure didn’t laugh around him. She treated him with the same cool politeness he would employ with a slightly-less-than-adequate waiter.

      The worst part was, he didn’t have the first idea how to reach her.

      He’d contacted a couple of grief counselors over the Internet and they’d both said it would take time for the children to adjust to their new life. In the blink of an eye, the spark of a fire to plastic explosives, their lives had changed completely.

      They had lost everything they knew. First their parents had died and then he had dragged them away from all that was comfortable and secure, into a strange country with different customs and even a new language.

      How could he blame Miriam for being slow to accept some of the changes in her life?

      The music in his left ear continued to drone on. Over it, he heard Jane say something in that proper British accent, though he couldn’t quite catch the words.

      Low though it was, the sound of her voice seemed to slither through his skin and his insides clenched in response. This was getting ridiculous, he thought in disgust. It was only a voice. He had no business letting it slide across his nerve endings like a silk caress.

      He couldn’t trust her. This whole situation bugged the hell out of him. Yeah, she had a head injury. X-rays and CT scans didn’t lie. But he still wasn’t buying the whole amnesia story. It seemed entirely too unlikely.

      What reason would she have for concocting the story, though? What could she be hiding? And how had she ended up on that mountain road in the first place?

      His mind couldn’t stop running through the possibilities, even as he waited on hold with the FBI. He couldn’t help it. He’d been wading in counterintelligence waters too long to turn off the tap at will.

      Scenario one, she’d had a car accident somewhere up in the mountains and wandered away from the scene, disoriented and injured. That could certainly be possible, but only if Daniel’s deputies managed to stumble on to a damaged vehicle up there. Even if they did find a car, that still wouldn’t explain why she might have been driving the dirt backroads of Utah in the first place.

      Scenario two, this one a whole lot less palatable. Somebody who wanted to get rid of her whacked her over the head and left her for dead up in the mountains. She needed a convenient hiding place and found it here at the Bittercreek.

      He didn’t like considering that one. What could she have done to piss somebody off enough for that? If this theory were true, was anybody still looking for her? Was he placing the children in harm’s way by allowing her to stay at the ranch?

      He pushed that theory away as the telephone music changed to a murdered Elton John tune. He winced and went back to his speculations.

      Scenario three was his least favorite. What if Jane was faking the whole thing—the head injury, the amnesia, everything—for nefarious reasons he couldn’t quite work out yet?

      He found it tough to reconcile the fragile, frightened-looking woman with someone who could carry out such a cold-blooded scheme, but those who could blend in and appear innocent on the outside always made the best operatives. Maybe she was just damn good at her job.

      He had to admit, the whole thing smelled of a setup. But who could she be working for? Who would put so much time and energy into planting an operative on an isolated mountain road for the express purpose of having him find her?

      He had more enemies than he liked thinking about—hostile operatives in organizations he’d worked to weaken like Abu Sayyaf and Jemaah Islamayah in the Philippines and similar groups in other countries, but also a few within the U.S. intelligence community.

      His whereabouts were supposed to be a secret from all but the top echelons of the Agency but leaks were as common in the spy business as flies in a manure pit. A government can’t expect to give its operatives the skills to infiltrate the organizations of enemy combatants without running the risk that they could turn those same skills inward and sneak through all the firewalls and safety nets.

      He had angered a lot of people by dropping out of the Game. Mason couldn’t deny that. He’d been a key operative in Mindanao and his cover had been solid. Though there were layers and contingency plans built into the system, his exit would certainly leave a void, one that hadn’t gone over well with some.

      As long as they kept their antagonism to themselves, Mason didn’t care if the entire Agency had him on their shit list. He had given twelve years of his life to the cause—and most of his soul. Yes, he believed the work was important. Yes, he had played a valuable part in protecting the security of his country. But he had wondered for a long time—well before Samuel and Lianne were murdered—if the cost was worth it.

      The music in his ear stopped abruptly and Mason sat up straighter.

      “Hello?”

      Finally, just when he’d been about ready to give up in disgust, he heard the slight West Texas twang of one of his FBI contacts in the Salt Lake City field office.

      “Hey, Davis. Mason Keller.”

      Cale Davis had been sent to the Philippines as part of the FBI’s Crimes Against Children unit. He was investigating a sex-slave ring where homeless Filipino kids were being sold to wealthy international businessmen. Though it wasn’t typically his area of expertise, Mason, in his cover as an expatriate bar owner and sometimes arms trader, had found himself in a position to help the CAC investigation.

      Their two worlds had collided and through it, he and Cale had somehow connected.

      A long silence met his greeting and he could only guess what was running through the agent’s mind.

      “Keller,” the other man finally said. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors about you.”

      “I can imagine.”

      “Did you really tell your division director to pull his thumb out of his ass before he dug around and found a terrorist cell up there?”

      Mason grimaced. “Uh, something like that.”

      “Man, you always did have stones as big as watermelons. I heard you’re gone from the Agency. Did they fire you?”

      “I didn’t give them the chance. I submitted my letter of resignation before that little altercation with my superiors.”

      “Why the grand exit?” Cale asked.

      Mason thought of all the reasons he’d quit. The disillusionment. The grinding challenge of constantly playing a role, wallowing in filth and ugliness