Secret Passage Page 9

  Camille happened to be watching Mrs. Fowler as Davy described the procedure, and the older woman’s face went still with shock. Then her gaze narrowed on Zac.

  Zac placed his hand on Davy’s shoulder. “Did you get the doctor?”

  “He said he’d come right away.”

  “Good.” He glanced at Camille. “We should probably clear out of here so that Billy can get some rest. He’s had quite a night.”

  “You saved his life,” Davy said solemnly.

  “Well, it was only fair since you saved mine.”

  Daniel Clutter stood up and stuck out his hand to Zac. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you.” He was a plain-looking man with a careworn face and a receding hairline.

  “No thanks necessary. I’m just glad the boy is going to be okay.”

  Guilt flickered across Daniel’s face as he gazed down at Billy. It was the bane of all single parents, Camille thought, that you could never be in two places at once.

  Outside, Zac and Camille retrieved their shoes from the beach, then walked silently home. As they entered the house, Camille turned on a lamp. “We should probably get out of these wet clothes, too.” Then, as if concerned by how that might have sounded, she glanced up. “I mean, we don’t want to catch cold…or anything.”

  “Not to mention ruining your floor.”

  “I’m not worried about the floor.” She drew a long breath. “The boys were right, Zac. You were amazing. If it hadn’t been for you—”

  “You would have rescued him yourself.”

  “But I’m not as strong a swimmer as you. We all three might have drowned.”

  “Then it’s lucky I was there,” he said softly.

  Camille nodded, the emotions of the night tightening her throat. “I have to be up early in the morning so I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Good night, Camille.”

  “Good night.”

  She hurried inside her bedroom, closed the door and turned the lock.

  As if that would keep temptation at bay, she thought.

  Undressing, she quickly dried off, then drew on her nightgown. As she sat down at the bureau to brush out her wet hair, a knock sounded on her bedroom door.

  Her heart thudded against her chest. She hesitated for a moment, then got up and went to answer it. Zac stood on the other side, still in his wet clothing.

  Camille stared up at him. “Yes?”

  “I have to ask you something.” His gaze on her was dark and intense. Almost accusing, she thought nervously.

  “What is it?”

  “Why didn’t you ask me how I did it?”

  Her heart thudded again. She knew what he meant, but she pretended she didn’t. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Why didn’t you ask, Camille?” Her name on his lips drew a shiver up her spine. “Aren’t you curious about the procedure I used?”

  “The only thing I care about is that Billy is still alive. You saved him.” Her gaze met his, and now it was she who sounded slightly accusing. “I only wish you could have saved my son.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, a man Camille had never seen before approached her desk at work. She knew that he was someone with a high-level security clearance or he would never have been allowed in offices that housed so many top secret documents.

  “Miss Somersby?”

  “Yes.” As Camille stared up at him, a cold chill shot through her. He was one of the most formidable-looking men she’d ever seen—tall and ruggedly built, with dark hair swept back from a pale face and an eye patch that gave him not so much a rakish appearance, but more the look of a satyr.

  His gaze was cold and unblinking as he stared down at her. “I’m Special Agent Talbott, FBI.” He showed her his credentials. “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

  “Of course,” Camille said reluctantly.

  Talbott scanned the room where dozens of secretaries and file clerks busily went about their jobs. Camille glanced around, too, and her gaze met Alice Nichols’s. The young woman looked up from her typewriter and lifted a querying eyebrow. Camille shook her head slightly and turned back to Talbott.

  “Is there someplace we could speak in private?” It was more of a command than a request. Camille nodded and rose. She led Talbott across the hall to a small break room furnished with a few wooden tables and chairs. He motioned to the table farthest from the door and they both sat.

  “What’s this about?” Camille asked bluntly.

  The blue gaze regarded her for a moment before he said, very softly, “You have a man living in your home. A Mr. Zac Riley. I want you to tell me everything you know about him.”

  Camille frowned. “Why? Has he done something wrong?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind. What can you tell me about Riley? Where is he from? Why did he come here?”

  Camille shrugged. “I assume he came here for the same reason we all did. To find work.”

  “What was he doing in that mine?”

  “I don’t know. The nurses at the hospital seem to think that he went inside to get out of that terrible storm that came through here last week.”

  “What does he say?”

  Camille shrugged again. “He doesn’t seem to remember many of the details before or after the accident.”

  “How convenient,” Talbott muttered. His gaze lifted. “I’m surprised that you seem to know so little about him.”

  “Why? He’s my tenant. We aren’t friends.”

  “And yet you invited him into your home. My mother would tell you that you are playing with fire, Miss Somersby.”

  “He needed a place to stay and I had a room for rent. It’s as simple as that. Surely you’re aware of the housing shortage around here. A lot of people have invited strangers into their homes. Some might say it’s the patriotic thing to do.”

  “Are you a patriot, Miss Somersby?”

  Something about the question—or perhaps it was his tone—set off warning bells in her head. “Of course I am.”

  “You would do your patriotic duty, then, to insure an Allied victory?”

  Camille frowned. He was making her more nervous by the moment, but she tried not to show it. “What are you getting at?”

  He leaned toward her, and she had to fight the urge to shrink away from him. “What if I were to tell you that we know of an enemy spy in Oak Ridge, living and working among us? We know this agent has recruited at least one person to his cause, and together they are plotting something big, even as we speak.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him then?” Camille said.

  “We don’t yet know his—or her—identity. But if they’re not found, and soon, the damage to our cause could be catastrophic.”

  Camille shook her head. “I don’t understand. What is it you think I can do? I’m just a file clerk.”

  “You are a file clerk with a high-level security clearance,” he reminded her. “I’m asking you to keep your eyes and ears open. Be on the lookout for any suspicious activity at work…and at home.”

  Her gaze went cold. “You want me to spy on Zac Riley for you? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “You’re in a unique position to keep an eye on him for us. If he does or says anything the least bit dubious, I want you to report back to me. But I must advise extreme caution.” His gaze deepened. “I have a feeling your Mr. Riley is a very dangerous man.”

  You have no idea, Camille thought with a shiver.

  NORMALLY, CAMILLE and Alice Nichols timed their lunch breaks so that they could eat together in the cafeteria, but a fresh batch of files kept Camille late and by the time she was able to tear herself away, the young woman was nowhere to be found. Camille wondered if she’d snuck away for an assignation with her lover.

  Making her way along the wooden walkway, Camille tried in vain to stay out of the mud, but it oozed between the slats so insidiously there was no getting away from it. People were so accustomed to the muck by now th
at they fondly likened the reservation to the Klondike gold-rush days. And as with most frontier-type settings, the population of the town was noticeably youthful. There was one big difference, however, that Camille had noted. The pervasive presence of the military was unique to the government town site.

  As Camille walked along, she thought about her conversation with Talbott and his assertion that an enemy spy had infiltrated Oak Ridge and that he or she—along with at least one recruit—was planning something big.

  Could their scheme have something to do with her grandfather’s work? she wondered. The Philadelphia Experiment was scheduled for August 15, less than a week away. Was it possible that enemy agents had gotten wind of the project and were planning to somehow sabotage the ship? Or worse, to steal secret documents that would allow them to recreate the experiment?

  A part of Camille wanted more than anything to destroy the experiment herself. How many lives could be saved—including her son’s—if the technology that had led to Project Phoenix had never been developed? If Von Meter’s megalomania had never been given free rein?

  But Camille’s grandfather had cautioned her against such interference. She wasn’t there to tamper with history or play God. She was there to insure that Von Meter and his minions didn’t, either.

  Entering the cafeteria, she quickly filled a tray, then found a table in a quiet corner where she had a view of the door. Alice Nichols came in a few minutes later, and before Camille could wave her over, the young woman headed toward the other side of the room. She sat down at a table occupied by a man who had his back to Camille. As she watched, Alice leaned across the table and smiled. There was something intimate in that smile, Camille thought. Something seductive about her body language as she gazed intently into his eyes.

  Then she pulled back, and as she placed her handbag on the table, a paper fluttered to the floor. She and her companion reached for it at the same time, but the man’s arm was longer. He plucked the paper from the floor, but rather than return it to Alice, he casually stuffed it into his pocket.

  It was all done very quickly, very casually, so as not to call attention to the action. Camille glanced around the cafeteria. She was almost certain no one else had even noticed the exchange, and she was left wondering what she should do about it.

  Nothing, of course. She couldn’t interfere, and besides, it might have been nothing more sinister than a love note.

  A moment later, the man got up and strode to the door. As Camille watched him, the hair at the back of her neck bristled. There was something about him…

  He turned at the door to glance over his shoulder, and she had a quick glance of his profile. The pale skin, the dark hair, the eye patch…

  Talbott. Camille drew a sharp breath as recognition shot through her. She’d seen him before. Not just this morning in her office, but in a different time, a different place…

  A vision came to her suddenly. She and Adam playing baseball in the park. A man standing in the shadows watching them. Then he stepped into the light, and, when he removed his dark glasses, there was something odd about his eyes…something that chilled Camille to the bone.

  She felt that same chill now as she watched Special Agent Talbott disappear through the door.

  ZAC WAS PLAYING CATCH in the front yard with Billy when Camille got home from work late that afternoon. She sat in the car for a moment and watched them. It was like having a glimpse at what might have been, she thought with a pang. And a reminder of what she had lost.

  Billy came running up to her as soon as she got out of the car. “Guess what? Zac is teaching me how to play baseball!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Camille managed to say over the lump in her throat. “It’s about dinnertime, though. Don’t you think you’d better be heading home?”

  He turned to Zac. “Just a few more minutes. Please? Pretty please?”

  The lump in Camille’s throat threatened to cut off her breath as Zac ruffled Billy’s hair. “Miss Camille’s right. You need to run along home now.” When the boy started to protest, Zac said, “Go on, now. We’ll play again tomorrow.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. And you remember what you promised me.”

  “If I stay away from the mine, you’ll teach me how to throw a curveball?”

  “That’s right. Now run along and see if you can keep out of trouble.”

  Billy beamed up at Zac, then took off for home.

  Zac turned to Camille. “Is something wrong?”

  She glanced away. “No, why do you ask?”

  “You seem upset.”

  “It’s been a long day—”

  “It’s more than that. I saw your face when you first came up. What is it, Camille?”

  Something in his voice, in the way he said her name, brought tears to her eyes. “It’s just…my son loved baseball,” she heard herself saying. “We were playing catch in the park the day he died.”

  “God,” she heard Zac mutter as she turned and hurried inside the house.

  A moment later, he followed her in. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  She stood at the window, staring out at the lake. “How could you?”

  “What happened?” he asked softly.

  “He ran out into the street after a ball and was struck by a car.”

  Camille squeezed her eyes closed as images bombarded her. The screams, the sirens, the pounding of her own heartbeat. The terrible knowledge as she’d cradled her son in her arms that he was already gone….

  She turned and started toward her bedroom. “I’ll get changed and then start dinner.”

  “No, don’t go. Tell me about him.”

  There was a strange plea in Zac’s voice, one that tore at Camille’s heart. “I…can’t. I can’t talk about him. Not with you. Not with anyone.” She turned back to the door, but Zac caught her arm.

  “Camille—”

  His gaze on her was dark and mysterious and…gentle somehow. It wasn’t pity she saw in his eyes, it was compassion. It was confusion. It was all the emotions Camille felt, too.

  He reached up and thumbed a tear from her face. She shivered at his touch. At the memories the caress evoked.

  For the longest moment, they stood that way, gazing into one another’s eyes, his hand cupping her face. And then, very slowly, he dipped his head toward hers.

  Camille jerked away. “I have to get changed.” Before he could protest, she fled into her room, closed the door, then leaned back weakly as she tried to slow her racing heart.

  For a moment out there, she’d been certain that Zac meant to kiss.

  And, for a moment, she was pretty sure she would have let him.

  A STRANGE NOISE AWAKENED Camille. She lay in the darkness, trying to pinpoint the sound. She thought at first it was some night creature up on the ridge, but then she realized it was closer than that. It was coming from somewhere inside the house.

  Her heart pounding, she got up and slipped silently across the room. Opening the door, she peered out. Nothing seemed amiss. Nothing stirred in the darkness. Then she heard the sound again, and she realized it was coming from the back porch. Zac was in trouble.

  Camille didn’t bother to knock. She drew aside the curtain, catching her breath at what she saw.

  Zac lay naked on top of the covers. He shivered so violently the bed actually shook beneath his weight, and he gasped for breath, as if he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs.

  Camille hurried across the room to the bed. She knew the danger of awakening him suddenly, but she couldn’t allow him to suffer like that. Tentatively, she bent and shook his shoulder. The moment he opened his eyes, she jumped back.

  But instead of the violent reaction she’d expected, he lay stone still, his gaze seeking hers in the darkness. “Camille?”

  She smoothed nervous hands down the sides of her cotton nightgown. “You were having a nightmare.”

  “It’s…freezing…in here.” His teeth chattered as he spoke.


  The temperature was stifling, in fact, but Camille reached out and handed him the quilt that had slipped to the floor. Zac drew it around him, still trembling. “Where am I?” he finally said.

  “You don’t remember?”

  He glanced around. “I—” Comprehension dawned on his face, and he fell back against the pillow. “Oak Ridge…1943,” he whispered.

  “That’s right.”

  He licked his lips. “I’m thirsty. Do you suppose…I could have a glass of water?”

  “Of course.”

  Camille was relieved to have something to do. She hurried from the room and took her time filling a glass from the tap. When she came back, Zac had put on his pants, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. He looked up expectantly when she came in.

  “Here’s your water.”

  “Thanks.” He took the glass and drained the contents like a man dying of thirst.

  “Would you like some more?” Camille asked.

  He set the glass aside. “No, that’s fine. Look, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry I woke you up. But…I was worried about you. You seemed so distressed.”

  He glanced away. “It’s a recurring nightmare.”

  “Do you want to talk about it? It might help.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing helps. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “A distraction.”

  Camille’s heart started to pound. What was he suggesting?

  Who was she kidding? She knew exactly what he was suggesting.

  When he stood, she inadvertently took a step back. “I should go,” she murmured, “Let you get back to sleep.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep. I never can after the nightmare.” He started slowly toward her.

  Camille back stepped again. “Well…then I should get to sleep. I have to get up early—”

  “Don’t go,” he said softly. He put out a hand, but he didn’t touch her. Instead, he braced himself against the wall, as if still not quite steady on his feet. “I need to ask you something.”