That Summer In Maine. Muriel Jensen

rolled his eyes at Duffy. “He’s a real giant now,” he said under his breath.

      Adam socked him on the shoulder.

      Duffy caught his hand and reminded, “Hey! No hitting, remember? And no giving Grandpa any trouble while I’m gone. He’s getting older and he can’t chase you down or climb trees to get you when you’ve gone too high.”

      “If we’re perfect,” Mike bargained, “can we go to Disney World before summer’s over?”

      They’d talked about that a few times during the year, and though Duffy had made no promises, it was on his agenda.

      “You think you can be perfect?” Duffy teased Mike.

      Mike nodded, then qualified that with his head tilted in Adam’s direction. “But I’m not sure he can do it.”

      “I can, too!” Adam raised a fist to punch him again, then at Duffy’s expression, thought better of it and withdrew it. “What is perfect?”

      “It means really, really good,” Mike informed him. “No mistakes.”

      Duffy lifted Adam onto his hip and let Mike drag his overnight bag toward the stairs. “Perfect’s a little hard to strive for. Just listen to Grandpa, stay in the yard like you’re supposed to, unless Grandpa says it’s okay to go next door, and eat your vegetables.”

      Adam made another face as they started down the stairs. “What if Grandpa makes eggplant like Desiree does sometimes?”

      “I’ll ask him not to.” Duffy turned to Mike, who struggled with the bag. “Want me to take that?”

      Mike shook his head. “I got it, Dad.”

      Duffy watched Mike with love and pride, and thought as he had many times over the past three years, that taking him had been one of the best moves he’d ever made.

      At the bottom of the stairs, Charlie took the bag from Mike.

      “I’m flying you to Kennedy,” he said, “to meet an old CIA pal of Elliott’s who’s taking you to Paris. Elliott’s staying with the boys.”

      “Tell him about the eggplant!” Adam whispered loudly in Duffy’s ear.

      THE FOLLOWING DAY Duffy lay on his stomach in the grass at the top of a slope in the Pyrenees. A dozen gendarmes were ranged around him, looking down on the Basque camp in the meadow below. The air was sweet with wildflowers, the whispered sounds around him spoken in an unfamiliar language, and somewhere in that meadow, the woman who’d saved his life when she was a teenager waited for rescue. It if weren’t for the glare in his eyes and the itch of grass and insects under his black sweater, he’d think this wasn’t real.

      But it was. He peered through binoculars to the scene below and saw men in camouflage and berets—the separatists. Then he noticed two men, hands tied behind their backs, sitting under a tree, and two women, hands also tied, one lying on the ground, presumably asleep, the other walking agitatedly back and forth. She was slender and moved as though she was young. He tried to focus on their faces, but they were too far away.

      Maggie was blond, though, and both women were dark-haired. He scanned the camp for some sign of her and the third man. He finally spotted them across the camp, sitting back to back. It looked as though they were talking.

      He focused on the woman as closely as he could and saw long, disheveled hair the color of polished gold. The sun picked it out like a mirror and made a halo around it. He couldn’t see her face, just a pair of long legs bent at the knee in camel-colored pants.

      He turned the glasses to the man she leaned against and saw that he was about her height, in a baseball cap and glasses also picked out by the sun. They were exhausted, judging by the way they leaned on each other.

      It had been almost twenty hours since they’d been taken, and he could only imagine their weariness and fear. It was clearly visible in the woman pacing back and forth.

      Instinct demanded that he run down the slope now, a full clip in his Glock. Reason, fortunately, dictated otherwise. Count men and weapons. Memorize positions. Rest and wait for darkness.

      That was exactly the order passed on to him in broken English from the young captain lying prone beside him.

      His eyes burned with the strain of keeping track of that spot of gold in the distance. Just as dusk turned to darkness, he watched one of the men in camouflage hook an arm into Maggie’s and help her to her feet. Then he did the same for the man. He led them to the fire and ladled them bowls of food.

      Then it became too dark to see details. The campfire flickered in the blackness, and finally the moon appeared from behind a cloud to cast a frail light on the camp. He searched it for a glimpse of gold and spotted it near the tree where the two men had sat. He thought he saw the agitated young woman near her, but he couldn’t be sure.

      The air crackled with tension as the order came to move down the slope. Duffy, focused on that glimpse of gold, stayed on the flank so that he could move out in an instant.

      “I CAN NOT STAND IT another moment!” Celine whispered in heavily accented English. Her mouth trembled and her whole body shook. She’d been on the brink of hysteria since they’d been ambushed on the hiking trail in the park, and was now about to plunge over the edge.

      “It’s going to be all right,” Maggie told her as she’d done a dozen times since this nightmare had begun.

      But as the girl continued to whine, Maggie was distracted by something she couldn’t quite define, some subtle disturbance of air she felt rather than heard. She turned toward the rugged slope just beyond their camp, wondering if she was imagining things.

      There was nothing to see in the pale moonlight, but she noticed that the leader, Eduard, had sensed something, too. His men seemed unaware of anything, but Baldy came up beside her. With the actor’s gift for feeling what couldn’t be seen, he asked under his breath, “What is it?”

      Before she could answer, Eduard shouted something to his men as he shrugged the Uzi off his shoulder and aimed it toward the slope. Two of their captors came running toward the hostages and tried to round them up and lead them into the trees.

      But Celine screamed, now clearly in a panic, and ran in the other direction.

      One of the soldiers aimed his weapon at her and shouted something that was probably a command to stop.

      Maggie, already in pursuit of her, doubted that she heard the order.

      “Celine!” she shouted. “Get down!”

      But Celine hadn’t heard her, either.

      The order was issued again and punctuated with the sound of gunfire.

      Maggie ran faster, so close to Celine that she could have touched her had her hands not been tied. Her only hope was to throw herself at the girl and knock her to the ground before a bullet did.

      But before she could do that, something struck her from the side and knocked her off her feet. For a surprised instant she simply lay in the cool grass hearing the sounds of chaos in the camp. There were cries, gunfire, shouted commands. She heard Celine’s sobbing.

      Then she became aware of the weight stifling her and struck backward with an elbow, certain the Basque gunman had caught them.

      “Whoa! I…oof!” She flailed and kicked like a wild thing, the part of her mind not occupied with the struggle wondering why she was doing it when she didn’t care if she lived or died. Then she decided it was probably a matter of being able to decide for herself when and where she gave up.

      Her foot had connected with flesh, and she took advantage of her opponent’s momentary surprise to scramble to her feet and run in the direction of Celine’s sobs.

      But she didn’t get far. She was tackled around the ankles and went down with a thud. She turned with a scream of rage, flailing wildly in the dark, trying to sit up.

      “Maggie!”