ETHAN DECKER welcomed the pain.

It rolled through him like waves of heat rippling across the desert floor. With eyes closed and head propped against the door behind him, he sat on the trailer's flimsy aluminum steps and waited for the desolate landscape to stop spinning. Given time, the desert would succeed where his enemies had failed. It would kill him.

But not, unfortunately, today.

Last night had been a mistake, an attempt to blot out the date and its memories with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. It hadn't worked. The throbbing within his skull had become a dark angel crouched upon his shoulder, prodding and laughing, reminding him he was still alive.

The heat pressed in, and he longed for the feel of a crisp ocean breeze against his face, or the pungent scent of pines in the mountain air. Instead, beneath the tattered green-and-white awning that stretched from the tin can he called home, he felt the dry, hot hand of the New Mexico desert. If the pain had become his angel, then the desert heat had become his unwelcome lover, wrapping herself around him with tight, searing arms.

And he deserved no better. Three years ago yesterday, his five-year-old son had died. Murdered. And nothing, not the Jack Daniel's, nor the desert could change Ethan's role in that senseless death.

He opened his eyes and squinted at the sun. It sat hours above the western horizon, a flat white disk piercing a dusty sky. With shaky hands he lifted a cup of lukewarm coffee to his lips and forced the bitter liquid down his throat. He should eat something, too, but he couldn't bring himself to go back inside the stifling trailer. Just the thought brought a fresh wave of nausea. He'd get something later, before heading out into the desert.

Or maybe he wouldn't go tonight. How hard could it be, just this once? He'd stretch out on the desert floor, beneath a million pinpricks of heavenly light and sleep.

Ethan shuddered and downed more coffee.

He wasn't fooling himself. He couldn't escape into sleep, any more than he could hide in a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Sleep brought the faces. They haunted his dreams with painful accusations in their small, frightened eyes. Children's eyes. They stared at him, asking their unanswerable questions, condemning him without speaking a word. No, he couldn't stay here tonight and sleep like normal men. He'd given up that right with Nicky's death.

As usual, he'd seek oblivion through the ritual that had ruled his nights for the past three years. From sunset until dawn he'd perform the moving meditation of tai chi. The practice promised balance where none existed and peace where none reigned.

So far he'd found neither. The intense regimen brought only fatigue, a physical exhaustion so complete he'd fall into a heavy dreamless slumber.

In the distance, a ribbon of dust rose from the direction of the road, drawing his thoughts from the nightmare of his life. He was about to have company. The approaching vehicle was still three or four miles away, but Ethan had no doubt about its destination. The poor excuse for a road led one place. Here.

The question of who would seek him out only vaguely interested him. None of the locals would come looking for him. He rarely went into town except to get supplies, and then he kept to himself. But there were hours last night he couldn't account for, time when the Jack Daniel's had ruled his actions.

He tried remembering what he'd done, or if he'd spoken to anyone. He'd gotten into town about nine and ordered something to eat, washing down the food with a couple or three beers. Then it had been straight Jack, and his memory blurred. The next thing he knew, he'd awakened in his own bed with the full force of the New Mexico sun beating on his face.

The dust cloud grew as the vehicle got closer.

If someone had gone to the effort of driving out here, it meant trouble. He thought of the Glock, buried under three years of pictures and regrets within an old metal box beneath his bed. In a few minutes it would be too late, but he made no move to retrieve the weapon. If the Agency had finally found him, then so be it.

He'd been dead for a long time anyway.

DR. PAUL TURNER was a dead man.

The thought struck him with icy certainty as he watched the approaching helicopter through sheets of rain. They wouldn't kill him right away, not while they still needed him, but it was just a matter of time. Then they'd make it look like an accident. He'd be on the mainland conducting Haven business, and his car would miss a turn and hurtle over a cliff. Or his heart would give out due to some rare and untraceable drug delivered via a hypodermic in the middle of the night. Possibly he'd be working in the lab and discover a tear in his bio-containment suit.

However they chose to end his life, no one would ask any questions or investigate the death of the once prominent Dr. Paul Turner. He'd disappeared from the scientific community nearly fifteen years ago, and as far as any of his peers knew, he'd been dead ever since.

Paul shivered and steered himself away from such morbid thoughts. He needed to concentrate on the next couple of hours and the upcoming meeting. Then, if he was smart and very careful, maybe he could come out of this alive.

Meanwhile, the rain and wind battered the aircraft as it hovered over the landing pad. The pilot fought for control, but the storm seemed determined to keep the helicopter from landing. A crash would solve his problem, Paul thought with a grim smile. Unfortunately, he had no doubt the vehicle would set down safely. The man on board, Avery Cox, wouldn't be stopped by anything as minor as inclement weather.

For the past ten years, as director and lead scientist at the Haven, Paul had answered to Cox. The facility, located on a remote, private island at the northern edge of Puget Sound, was home to a staff of doctors, nurses, teachers, and a variety of very special children. It included dormitories, classrooms, laboratories, a hospital, and the finest equipment and scientific minds money could buy.

Except for his yearly trips to Langley to deliver his annual report, Paul had very little contact with Cox. Generally he left Paul alone to run things, while supplying everything he needed: money, equipment, and the most important thing of all, anonymity. In return, Cox expected Paul to deliver results, which he'd done, consistently and without fail since taking over the Haven Project.

Now this.

Paul had done the unforgivable, committed the one act Cox wouldn't overlook. He'd lost two of the island's children.

If he'd been given time, a couple of days, a week at the most, he would have set things right without anyone knowing the difference. His people would have found the runaways, and things would have returned to normal. Unfortunately, it was too late for that. Someone had made a call, and it had taken Cox fewer than eight hours to arrive.

As Paul watched the helicopter descend, whipping the wet air into a frenzy, he realized anyone could have made that call. Cox had eyes and ears everywhere.

For a moment, Paul considered running.

It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind. He had more than enough money stashed in offshore banks. If he could get off the island and disappear into one of the backwater countries of Central or South America, he could live like a king for the rest of his life. Except it was a fool's dream. There was no place to hide, nowhere on earth where the Agency couldn't find him.

Copyright © 2003 by Patricia Van Wie