The flashlight’s beam slashed across her blanket-covered legs. When it steadied, and she saw that Tom was reaching for something inside his jacket, she jerked slightly and frowned; that gesture reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think what. Then he pulled out a wallet-no, an ID case-and without a word handed it to her and trained the light on it. She studied it carefully and then gave it back, heart thumping.

“My goodness,” she said faintly.

Her thoughts were racing. So he’d told her the truth, about being a policeman, at least. And this was what he meant by “not in this jurisdiction.” But who’d have thought…Interpol? It seemed so exotic to her, like something out of a movie, or a spy novel-James Bond stuff.

Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t think which question should logically come next. She also felt a little testy. She wished he’d just explain, dammit. But she could tell by his silence that she was going to have to drag this, whatever it was, out of him, piece by piece. She had an idea that the habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in this man.

But it hasn’t always been so. Oh, yes, somehow she knew that. Once he’d had a friend, a best friend, with whom he’d shared his innermost thoughts, his secrets, his anger and pain. A friend for whom he still grieved.

“But why…” Her throat was suddenly filled with gravel. She cleared it and tried again. “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”

Then her breath caught, and she blurted it out in a rush, even though she was sure she already knew the answer. “It’s the painting, isn’t it? I was afraid of that. It’s valuable, after all, isn’t it? And of course it’s stolen. I knew I liked that painting too much. Damn.”

She felt Tom’s knees move restively beside hers. “It’s not stolen,” he said gruffly. “And as far as I know, it’s not valuable.”

“Well, it certainly is to someone,” Jane snapped, impatient with the stingy way he was doling out information. “Aaron Campbell, for starters. Not to mention the person who was in my hotel room last night. Which reminds me…” She was relieved to feel the anger, finally, which was much more comfortable and a lot less complicated than what she’d recently been feeling toward the man whose legs lay so firm and warm against hers. So relieved that she fired her suspicions and questions at him recklessly, and without her usual diplomacy. “You being there, that wasn’t any accident, was it? So, who were you following, Agent Hawkins? Was it Campbell, or me?”

“You, of course.” His voice, in response to her anger, was hard and without expression, though it took on a note of dark irony when he added, “I’d rather hoped we’d left Mr. Campbell behind.”

“Okay, so who is he?”

She heard the soft hiss of an exhalation. “I wish to God I knew.”

“But you do think it was him in my room last night?”

“Let’s just say I hope it was.”

“You…hope? Why?”

There was another sigh, a whispery sound like wind-driven sand. He said almost gently, “Think, Carlysle. Would you rather have one other player out there somewhere, dogging our trail, or two?”

“Player?” The word exploded on a puff of air, as if something had squeezed her chest. She wondered what had become of her former serenity and confidence; all of a sudden, her mouth was dry and her heart was hammering against the wall of her chest. “What is this,” she demanded, “some kind of game? You know, dammit, for somebody who’s supposed to be enlightening me, you’re making me awfully confused!”

“I’m trying,” he muttered, shifting again. “To enlighten you, I mean. It’s just…not easy to explain.”

She wished he’d stop moving. It made it hard for her to hang on to the anger. She muttered unsteadily, “You’re making this sound very complicated.”

“Trust me, it is. And there’s a lot I can’t tell you.”

There was a long pause. Jane listened to the monotonous drone of eighteen tires on asphalt, fighting for the calm that had deserted her, searching for an anchor of normalcy in a world that had suddenly become unreal. As if, she thought, she’d somehow stepped into a movie-a Hollywood thriller, something starring Sylvester Stallone, or Arnold whatever-his-name-was.

But the painting. That was certainly real. And dammit, it was hers.

She cleared her throat and said with a great deal more firmness, both in her voice and her resolve, “Okay, then, tell me about the painting. If it’s not stolen, and it’s not valuable-”

“It’s not the painting.” There was another, shorter pause, during which she heard a familiar crackle, which she identified as the wrapper on a pack of cigarettes. Then the crackling ceased and his arm relaxed, coming to rest on the mound of her swaddled feet. She heard him sigh; evidently he’d decided that under the circumstances he was going to have to get through this without the aid of nicotine. She could almost feel him girding himself, and the words came as if each one represented a victory in a small, private tug-of-war. “I-we have…there’s reason to believe that a piece of information was, uh, hidden somewhere on or in that painting. A piece of information that would make it very valuable indeed to…certain people.” He subsided, seemingly exhausted by that effort.

But if he thought he was finished, Jane had news for him. “Information? Hidden? In my painting?” She fired the volley at him without drawing breath. “What sort of information?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” He sounded every inch an officer of the law. Jane had to resist an urge to kick him.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said in exasperation. “If there was something you wanted in my painting, why didn’t you just say so? If you’d only told me who you were and what you wanted, don’t you think I’d have been more than happy to cooperate?”

He was silent for just a little too long. Illumination came as he was finally drawing breath for an explanation, and she got there first, overriding it with a startled gasp, then a squeak of incredulous laughter. “You thought I was after the…whatever it is in the painting? That I was one of the, uh… That’s it-you did, didn’t you? Oh, for heaven’s sake.” And borrowing one of her daughters’ favorite expressions, she added, “Get real.”

“You did bid on the painting,” Tom said in his stuffiest and most inflexible policeman’s monotone. “You and Campbell were the only ones hanging in there. And then…” he paused a chilling instant “…there was just you.”

“Yes, because Mr. Campbell fainted…” The word trailed off as she suddenly found herself running short of air. “Oh, but-oh, God, you don’t mean you think somebody did something to him, do you? That he didn’t just…faint?”

It must have been then that full comprehension finally hit her. It was like a blast of cold, dank air from a freshly opened tomb, a vault filled with dreadful, frightening, unthinkable things from a world that was totally alien to her. A world of violence and evil. Chilled and clammy, she whispered, “Oh, you can’t think I would do anything like that.”

“It seemed a possibility at the time,” said Tom in a neutral voice.

“That’s why you followed us,” Jane went on as if he hadn’t spoken. Her voice was low and still tinged with the horror that had overtaken her when she added curiously, “How did you manage to do that, by the way? When Connie and I left the auction, you were standing on the loading platform smoking a cigarette. I saw you. You couldn’t have gotten to your car in time to see which way we’d gone. It’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible.” She didn’t need light to see the twisted, ironic little smile. “But as a matter of fact, I used a GPS tracker.”

“GPS? What on earth’s that?”

“Global Positioning System-tracking by satellite. I put a signaling device in your friend’s van when I was helping you stow your stuff.” She felt him jerk slightly, and thought perhaps he’d shrugged. And then he offered an ambiguous, “Sorry.”

“And that’s how you found me today,” she said flatly, choosing not to hear the apology, if indeed that’s what it had been. “Isn’t it? You didn’t just ‘happen’ to be there, either, at The Wall.”

“Yes…” there was a long exhalation “…and no.”

Her throat was tight suddenly, her eyes itchy. Why did she feel such a sense of disappointment and betrayal? Remembering the way her heart had gone out to him in his vulnerability and pain, she thought, God, Jane, how stupid you are.

She was silent for a long time, waiting for that constriction in her throat to relax, all the while running his explanations over and over in her mind. Several things bothered her. “But,” she said finally, “you said the device was in Connie’s van. So how come-”

“There’s also one in your bag.” His voice was soft, almost diffident. “I put it there last night.”

“I see.” Last night, in her room. And she’d been so grateful for his nearness and comfort. God, she felt awful. Hollow… queasy. She took a deep breath, trying to fill the emptiness inside her, if only momentarily.

“Tell me,” she said, and was both startled and pleased that her voice sounded so steady. “Was any of what you told me true? About your father, I mean. And…your friend.” She wondered why his answer mattered so much.

Or why she felt such an odd little twinge-relief that was almost like pain-when he answered, with the gravel of sincer ity in his voice, “Oh, yeah, that was true. All of it.”

“And when…” Carefully, carefully, Jane. She began again, now with forced lightness. “When did you, uh, change your mind about me being involved in all this? Or maybe I should ask-”

“Oh, that was last night.” He still sounded hoarse but with a note of anger himself, now. “To be precise, when I saw you standing there in that doorway with the light behind you and that damn toy pistol in your hands. Right then and there I said to myself, nobody’s that stupid. She must be innocent.”