“McCall,” said Mike. “I heard.” He tapped a fingertip against his lips. “I knew a McCall once.”

“Oh, surely not the same one,” said Lucy, in an “Oh, pshaw” sort of tone. “McCall’s not that uncommon a name.”

“She didn’t mention a first name, did she? Unless McCall-”

“I’m sure that would be the last name-can you imagine anybody naming a little baby McCall?”

“McCall…” Mike Lanagan said under his breath. “I wonder…” He was frowning thoughtfully as he went back to his computer.

McCall lay awake listening to the small sounds that marked Ink’s progress on her usual nightly rounds, thinking about the woman currently occupying his not-very-comfortable couch.

He’d offered her his bed, of course; he wasn’t a complete jerk. He’d apologized for not having a hammock-one Yucatan custom he’d never quite taken to-and told her how lumpy the couch’s cushions were, how they had a tendency to separate, allowing various body parts to fall through onto the rattan underpinnings.

She’d told him again about how she’d slept on the decks of ships, on bare ground and open beaches, on sidewalks and the steps of government buildings. A couch with actual cushions, she’d assured him, would be a luxury.

He’d have to leave his bedroom door open a few inches to allow Ink hunting access, he’d told her, adding a sly remark about how it might be a bit of an inconvenience, but it kept the lizard and scorpion population down. But instead of a horrified “Eeuw!” or a shudder or a change of heart about sleeping on the couch, all she’d done was smile and tell him she’d slept through worse.

So it wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. And it wasn’t guilt that kept him wide awake and tense long past the time when he’d normally be deep in untroubled, unhassled, live-and-let-live sleep. Awake, and all his senses keyed to the slightest sound or movement from beyond his half-open bedroom door.

Dammit, the woman just didn’t add up. She didn’t fit. Miss Goody Two-Shoes from Iowa, raised on a farm, now grown up and married and owner of a pet shop in Portland, Oregon. Disapproves of smoking, scarfs chocolate when upset; discomfitted by a topless beach but doesn’t hesitate to dispatch a mugger with a swift kick to the cojones. Says she’s slept on boats, beaches and sidewalks, isn’t put off by lizards and scorpions, and knows the scientific name for a kinkajou.

None of which seemed to McCall to fit with the kind of woman who’d do business with thugs and smugglers in dangerous backstreet bars. At least not for the sake of the money involved.

Unless her husband had gotten her into this. He supposed that might make sense; he’d heard there were women out there who’d do anything for the men they loved. Never met one in his lifetime, but…hey, who knew?

But-that was another thing-what about that blush? The one that showed up every time she mentioned that absent husband of hers. What the hell was that all about?

He stirred angrily-then froze as he heard rustlings from the other room. The creak of rattan. His houseguest was restless, too, it seemed. He wondered if she could be lying awake as he was, staring wide-eyed into the shadows and wondering about him.

Just for a moment-though it might have been his imagination-he caught a whiff of her orange-blossom scent, carrying him back once again to a distant past, and the sweet, sad ache that always came over him when he thought about his beginnings…his boyhood…his parents. From across the room the photograph on the dresser was only a faint rectangular edge in the darkness, but he could see his mom’s and dad’s faces in his mind, looking, as always, not out at him but toward each other. It was the way he remembered them-high-school sweethearts, lovers first, parents only a distant second to that.

McCall knew he’d come a long way from Bakersfield, California, in more ways than one. Why was it, looking back at times like this, he always got the feeling he’d missed a turn somewhere along the way?

Damnation, he needed to sleep; he had what looked to be a long and uncertain day ahead of him. What he needed was a cigarette-that would help. Yeah…and a shot or two of tequila. But…since he had a guest in his living room and a hard and fast rule against smoking in bed, he got up as quietly as he knew how, pushed the window open and, cigarettes and lighter in hand, stepped onto the veranda.

Far down at the other end of the veranda, Ellie heard the window creak open on its hinges. When she saw the shadowy form emerge she tensed instinctively and flattened herself against the wall. A dumb thing to do, she immediately realized. Even without a moon she’d be plainly visible against the white wall, if he chose to look this way.

If he didn’t hear her first. Counting her thudding heartbeats and trying not to breathe, she watched a lighter flare…a tiny bud, blossoming into a wider glow that included cupped hands…a face…deeply hooded eyes. There was a click, and the face slipped once more into shadow. She heard an exhalation…a soft, grateful sigh.

I have to let him know I’m here, Ellie thought. Oh lord… But better now than later.

Summoning her courage, she pushed herself away from the wall. “Don’t freak out. Just wanted to let you know you weren’t alone.”

Other than a little grunt of surprise, he said nothing. She watched the glowing end of his cigarette arc upward, flare briefly, then wink out. Cupped in his hand, perhaps, or obscured by his body.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she explained, her voice gruff with nervousness. “Thought maybe some fresh air would help.”

He cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was as gravelly as hers. “Told you that couch wasn’t comfortable.”

“No, no-it wasn’t that.” She smiled, even though he wouldn’t see it. “Or Inky, either. I think maybe I’m just a little nervous-about tomorrow.” That was true enough, but only partly. The other reasons for her sleeplessness she didn’t want to think about or examine too closely.

She moved away from the wall, inhaling deeply as she looked out over dark rooftops and darker water toward a horizon that was fading to milky gray. “It’s nice out here, though. I think there’s going to be a moon. Not full though-not for a few more days.”

Again the cigarette’s tiny yellow eye winked at her, and again he said nothing. Finally, she let the breath out in a rush and leaned against the base of an arch, her back to the view. “This is awkward for you, isn’t it? Having me here.” She waited, and when he still didn’t respond, added dryly, “I take it you don’t have too many visitors.” At least, not like me…not the kind of visitor that sleeps on the couch.

There was the faint hiss of an exhalation, and then a grudging, “Not many.”

Okay, Ellie thought, he just stepped out for a smoke and doesn’t feel like talking. I can handle that. Don’t take it personally. It isn’t like the man’s a scintillating conversationalist at the best of times.

But the silence was like a tender tooth she couldn’t stop herself from probing.

“Seems funny,” she remarked after a moment. “It’s your house, and you have to come outside for a cigarette?”

This time the winking yellow eye was accompanied by a grunt that may have been amusement. “Not generally.” His voice was raspy in the darkness. “Just don’t smoke in bed, is all. Habit I picked up a long time ago, when I was…”

“Married?” Ellie ventured when he left it unfinished. Then, momentarily emboldened by his soft affirming chuckle, she got as far as, “How did-” before stopping herself with a hand clapped across her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled, more resentful than contrite. “Forgot myself there for a minute.”

She listened to the night’s sounds…the rustle of breezes in tropical foliage, the far-off barking of a dog. The faint sound of a throat being cleared. She pushed abruptly away from the arch and let out her breath in an exasperated rush. “Dammit, McCall. I don’t think I’m a nosy person. Really. I mean, it’s normal for strangers forced together by circumstances to ask each other questions. It’s not prying, it’s…it’s just trying to find a common ground. Like, ‘What do you do for a living? Where are you from? Are you married? Have any kids? Read any good books lately?’ Then you go from there. Maybe you find out you don’t have anything in common with this person and you never want to see them again as long as you live. Or, maybe you hit it off and you’ve made a new friend. How are you ever going to know if you don’t talk?”

There was a long pause. Then, just as Ellie was uttering a whimper of pure frustration, the raspy voice came again. “Maybe I just like to maintain an air of mystery.” Definitely amused.

Ellie’s frustration morphed into a kind of cautious joy. A little frisson of excitement shivered through her, finding its way into her voice. “You mean, like Batman?”

The cigarette’s ember arced away into the night, exploding in a tiny shower of sparks as it made contact with the ground. “Batman?” The chuckle seemed easier this time, though loaded with irony. “A superhero? Not hardly.”

“Hey, if you don’t want me to know the real story, you could always make something up,” Ellie suggested. “Then, I’ll tell you something back-”

“Make up something, you mean?”

“Maybe. Who knows?”

“So we stand here and tell each other lies.”

“At least we’d be speaking.” But she felt breathless, suddenly, and not from laughter. And a peculiar shaking deep inside. Did he know? Could he read her so easily? Liar liar, pants on fire…

For a moment there while they’d been talking she’d begun to move closer to him, as if words were an invisible line pulling them together in the alienating darkness. Now she saw the space between them as a zone of safety and shrank back into it, the darkness an ally, protection for her own lies. Necessary lies, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she had any choice.