CHAPTER 1
Librarian Paige Rogers had survived more exciting days
dodging bullets to protect her country. Given a choice,
she’d rather be battling assassins than collecting overdue
fines. For that matter, running down terrorists had a lot
more appeal than running down lost books. Oh, the regrets of
life—woven with guilt, get-over-its, and move-ons. But
do-overs were impossible, and the adventures of her life
were now shelved alphabetically under fiction.
Time to reel in my pitiful attitude and get to work. Paige
stepped onto her front porch with what she needed for a full
workday at the library. Already, perspiration dotted her
face, a reminder of the rising temperatures. Before locking
the door behind her, she scanned the front yard and surveyed
the opposite side of the dusty road, where chestnut-colored
quarter horses grazed on sparse grass. Torrid heat and no
rain, as though she stood on African soil. But here, nothing
out of the ordinary drew her attention. Just the way she
liked it. Needed it.
Sliding into her sporty yet fuel-efficient car, she felt for
the Beretta Px4 under the seat. The past could rear its ugly
head without warning. Boy Scouts might be prepared; Girl
Scouts were trained. The radio blared out the twang of a
guitar and the misery of a man who’d lost his swee heart to
a rodeo star. Paige laughed at the irony of it all.
She zipped down the road, her tires crunching the
grasshoppers that littered the way before her. In the
rearview mirror, she saw birds perched on a barbed wire
fence and a few defiant wildflowers. They held on to their
roots in the sun-baked dirt the way she clutched hope. The
radio continued to croon out one tune after another all the
way into the small town of Split Creek, Okl homa, ten klicks
from nowhere.
After parking her car in the designated spot in front of the
library, Paige hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder and
grabbed a book about Oklahoma history and another by C. S.
Lewis.
The latter had kept her up all night, helping her make some
sense out of the sordid events of her past. She scraped the
grasshoppers from her shoes and onto the curb. The pests
were everywhere
this time of year. Reminded her of a few gadflies she’d been
forced to trust overseas. She’d swept the crusty hoppers off
her porch at home and the entrance to the library as she’d
done with the shadow makers of the past. But nothing could
wipe the nightmares from her internal hard drive.
Her gaze swept the quiet business district with an awareness
of how life could change in the blink of an eye. A small
land scaping of yellow marigolds and sapphire petunias
stretched toward the sky in front of the newly renovated,
one-hundred-year-old courthouse. Its high pillars supported
a piece of local history . . . and the secrets of the best
of families. Business owners unlocked their stores and
exchanged morning greetings. Paige recognized most of the
dated cars and dusty pickups, but a black Town Car with
tinted glass and an Oklahoma license plate parked on the
right side of the courthouse caught her attention.
Why would someone sporting a luxury car want to venture into
Split Creek, population 1,500? The lazy little town didn’t
offer much more than a few antique stores, a small library,
a beauty shop, Dixie’s Donuts, a Piggly Wiggly, four
churches— including one First Baptist and one South First
Baptist, each at opposite ends of town, one First Methodist,
and a holiness tabernacle right beside Denim’s Restaurant.
She wanted to believe it was an early visitor to the
courthouse. Maybe someone lost. But those thoughts soon gave
way to curiosity and a twist of suspicion.
With a smile intended to be more appealing than a Fourth of
July storefront, she crossed the street to subtly
investigate the out-of-place vehicle. Some habits never changed.
Junior Shafer, who owned and operated a nearby antique
store, stooped to arrange his outside treasures. Actually,
Paige rarely saw an antique on display, just junk and old
Avon bottles.
“Mornin’, Mr. Shafer. Looks like another scorcher.”
“Mornin’. Yep, this heat keeps the customers away.” The
balding man slowly stood and massaged his back. “Maybe I’ll
advertise free air-conditioning and folks will stop in.”
“Whatever works.” She stole a quick glance at the Town Car
and memorized the license plate number. No driver. “Looks
like you have a visitor.” She pointed to the car.
Mr. Shafer narrowed his eyes and squinted. “Nah, that’s
probably Eleanor’s son from Tulsa. He’s helping her paint
the beauty shop. She said he had a new car. The boy must be
doing fine in the insurance business.”
“Now that’s a good son.”
Mr. Shafer lifted his chin, then rubbed it. “Uh, you know,
Paige . . . he ain’t married.”
“And I’m not looking.” She’d never be in the market for a
husband. Life had grown too compl cated to consider such an
undertaking, even if it did sound enticing.
“A pretty little lady like you should be tending to babies,
not books.”
“Ah, but books don’t grow up or talk back.”
He shook his head and unlocked his store.
“I have a slice of peach pie for you.” Paige reached inside
her tote bag and carefully brought out a plastic container.
“I baked it around six this morning. It’s fresh.”
He turned back around. A slow grin spread from one generous
ear to the other. “You’re right. You don’t need to go off
and get married. I might not get my pies.” He did his
familiar shoulder jig. “Thank you, sweet girl.” He reached
for the pie with both hands as though it were the most
precious thing he’d ever been offered.
The door squeaked open at Shear Perfection.
“Mornin’, Eleanor,” Mr. Shafer said. “I see your son’s car.
Glad he’s helping you with the paintin’.”
“That’s not my son’s.” Miss Eleanor crossed the street,
shielding her eyes from the steadily rising sun. “He isn’t
coming till the weekend.”
Paige’s nerve endings registered alert. “Won’t that be
wonderful for you?” She took another passing glance at the
vehicle. “I wonder who’s driving that fancy car? Too early
for courthouse business.”
“Somebody with money.” Mr. Shafer lifted the plastic lid off
the freshly baked pie and inhaled deeply. “Can’t wait till
lunch.”
“Mercy, old man, you’re already rounder than my deardeparted
mama’s potbelly stove.” Eleanor’s blue hair sparkled in the
sunlight as though she’d added glitter to her hairspray.
“You’re just jealous. If you weren’t a diabetic, you’d be
stealing my pie. Paige here knows how to keep a man happy.”
One block down, a man carrying a camera emerged from between
one of Mr. Shafer’s many antique competitors and the
barbershop. He lifted it as if to snap a picture of the
barbershop. Paige swung her attention back to her friends.
He could be the real thing. She hoped so and forced down any
precursors of fear.
“What’s he taking pictures of ?” Eleanor paused. “I’m going
to ask.” Determination etched her wrinkled face. She squared
her shoulders and marched toward the stranger as though she
represented the whole town.
Good, Eleanor. I’ll head back and let you do the recon work.
Eleanor and the stranger stood too far away for Paige to
read their lips, but at least while the two talked, the man
couldn’t take pictures. A few moments later, the stranger
laughed much too loud. Eleanor reached out and shook his
hand, then walked back.
Paige focused on Mr. Shafer. She picked up a watering can
leaning precariously against a rotted-bottom chair. “Is this
a new addition?”
“Nah. It was inside. I just brought it out yesterday.” From
the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger stare at them.
Medium height. Narrow shoulders. Italian-cut clothes.
Couldn’t see the type of camera. The stranger walked their
way, shoulders arched and rigid. Unless he was a pro, she’d
have him sized up in thirty seconds, and then she’d go about
her day—relieved. Mr. Shafer lifted his gaze toward Eleanor.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Jason Stevens, a photographer looking for some homespun
pictures about small towns in Oklahoma.”
The way he’s dressed? Paige’s heart pounded. She replaced
the watering can. “Did he say for what magazine?”
“Didn’t ask. Why don’t you? He wants to take a few shots of
us standing in front of our businesses.” Eleanor beckoned to
Stevens. “Come on over and meet my friends. Paige here
wonders what magazine you work for.”
The man continued to smile—perfect teeth, perfect smile.
“It’s for a newspaper, the Oklahoman.” He stuck out his hand.
“Mornin’, folks. I bet you’d like your picture in the
magazine insert.” His camera rested in the crook of his
right hand, a new Nikon with fast lenses, perhaps a D90 or
D200. No dents or sign of use. Who was this guy? He wasn’t
any more a photographer than Eleanor or Mr. Shafer.
Have you used that piece of equipment before today?
“Welcome to Split Creek,” Paige said. “I’ll pass on the
picture, though. I’m not photogenic, but you have a
beautiful day to photograph our town.” She turned and
started across the street to the library.
“Of course you’re photogenic,” Eleanor called. “No one wants
to see a couple of old fuddy-duddies like us, but you’d make
front-page news.”
“You two are the center of attention. I’m the dull
librarian.” Paige continued to move rapidly across the street.
“Wait a minute,” Stevens said.
“Sorry. I need to open the library.”
“Come on back, sweet girl. There’s no one waiting to get
in,” Mr. Shafer said.
She lifted her hand and waved backward. Guilt nipped at her
heels for leaving them with Stevens, but she had more at
stake than they did. “See you two later. Nice meeting you,
Mr. Stevens.”
She unlocked the old building that had once been a bank but
now served as the town library. It oozed with character—
beige and black marble floors, rich oaken walls, tall
ceilings with intricately carved stone, and a huge crystal
chandelier the size of a wagon wheel. The areas where
tellers once met with customers now served as cozy reading
nooks, and a huge, round, brass-trimmed vault—minus the
door—held children’s books.
The windows still even had a few iron bars. If only the town
had high-speed Internet access. They’d been promised that
modernization for months.
For a precious moment, she relaxed and breathed in the
sights and smells. Bless dear Andrew Carnegie for his vision
to establish public libraries. Because of his philanthropy,
Paige had a sanctuary. From the creaking sounds of antiquity
to the timeworn smell of books and yellowed magazines, she
had quiet companions that took her to the edge of experience
but not the horror of reality.
In a small converted kitchen behind a vaulted door in the
rear corner, Paige placed a peanut butter, bacon, and mayo
sandwich in the fridge. Reaching down farther into her tote,
she wrapped her fingers around a package of Reese’s Pieces.
Those she’d stash in her desk drawer. The rest of the peach
pie sat on the backseat of her car. She’d retrieve it once
Stevens moved down the street, preferably out of town.
If he worked for Daniel Keary, her life was about to change—
and not for the better. She shook off the chills racing up
her arms. I can handle whatever it is. Snatching up her tote
bag, she closed the kitchen door behind her. With the
election nearly three months away, Stevens could be one of
Keary’s men sent to make sure she still understood her
boundaries. Regret took a stab at her heart, but there was
nothing she could do about Keary’s popularity. She’d tried
and failed against a force too power ful for her at the
time. But her prayers for truth continued.
Her sensible shoes clicked against the floor en route to the
front window. Standing to the side, she peered out through
the blinds to the sun-laden street for a glimpse of Stevens.
He continued to take pictures. Mr. Shafer would most likely
give him a tour of the town, beginning with his store and
the history of every item strewn across it. The so-called
photographer from the Oklahoman entered the antique shop.
That’ll bore him to tears and chase him out of town. Paige
went through the morning ritual of checking the drop box for
returned books, of which there were six. She changed the
dates on the date-due stamps and stacked the books to be
shelved in her arms. The seasoned citizens of Split Creek
representing the local book club would arrive any minute, as
regular as their morning’s constitutional. For an hour and a
half they’d discuss the merits of their current novel,
everything from the characters to the plot. Today they
couldn’t storm the shores of the library too soon for Paige.
As if on cue, Miss Alma bustled through the door—her purse
slung loosely from her shoulder, her foil-wrapped banana nut
bread in one hand and two books in the other.
“Good morning, Miss Alma,” Paige said. “Do you need some help?”
“No thanks. If I loosen my hold on one thing, everything
else will fall.”
A picture of PoliGrip hit Paige’s mind. “Well, you’re the
first today.”
Miss Betty sashayed in, a true Southern belle dressed in her
Sunday best, complete with a pillbox hat. “Miss Paige, may I
brew a pot of decaf coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s waiting for you.” Oh, how she loved these
precious people.
Within moments the rest of Split Creek’s Senior Book Club
arrived. Paige waved at Reverend Bateson, and as usual, Miss
Eleanor and Mr. Shafer were bickering about something.
“At least we agree that Daniel Keary should be our next
governor,” Miss Eleanor said.
At the mention of that name, Paige thought she’d be
physically ill. Keary was running on an Independent ticket,
and she didn’t care if a Democrat or a Republican pulled in
the votes. Anyone but Keary.
“I have banana bread,” Miss Alma said. “But don’t be picking
up a book with crumbs on your fingers.”
“We know,” several echoed.
Paige appreciated the comic relief. The rest of the members
placed chairs in a circle beneath the massive chandelier
while Paige checked in their books.
The library door opened again, and Jason Stevens walked in
with his camera. The sight of him erased the pleasantries
she’d been enjoying with the book club members. He made his
way to the circulation desk and stood at the swinging door,
trapping her inside.
Hadn’t she just swept the bugs off the steps of the library?
“Since you won’t let me take your picture outside, I thought
I’d snap a few in here. Wow—” his gaze took in the expanse
of the building—“this was a bank.” His brilliant whites
would have melted most women’s resolve.
Paige approached the swinging door. “No pictures, please.
They always turn out looking really bad.”
“How about lunch?”
“Are you coming on to me?” Disgust curdled her insides.
He waved his free hand in front of his face. The man knew
just when to utilize a dimple on his left cheek. “I’m simply
looking for a story to go along with my photos. This library
is charming, fascinating, and so are you.”
Revulsion for the dimple-faced city boy had now moved into
the fast lane. “Miss Alma, I’ll help you arrange the chairs.”
“Nonsense.” Miss Alma shook her blue-gray head. “You help
this young man. Those old people can do something besides
stand around and complain about their gout and bursitis.”
Any other time, Paige would have laughed at the remark. But
not today.
“Looks like they have everything under control.” The low,
seductive tone of Stevens’s voice invited a slap in the face.
“I suggest you visit with a few other business owners for
your newspaper’s needs,” she said.
“I’m very disappointed.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“Can’t we talk?” He leaned over the swinging door.
“You can leave, or I can call the sheriff. Your choice.” She
picked up the phone on her desk and met his gaze with a
stare down.
“So much for sweet, small-town girls.” He tossed her his
best dejected look. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to the
word no. Her reflexes remained catlike thanks to tai chi
workouts still done at home behind drawn curtains. With
minimal effort, she could dislocate a shoulder or crash the
kneecap of an opponent twice her weight. Such skills were
not a part of the job description for most small-town USA
librarians, but then again most of them didn’t have a
working knowledge of Korean, Angolan Portuguese, Swahili,
and Russian. The ability to decipher codes, a mastery of
disguise, and a knack for using a paper clip to open locks .
. . not to mention a past that needed to stay buried. She
had to resist the urge to toss Stevens out on his ear. Calm
down.
“I’m sorry we don’t have the book you wanted. I’m sure one
of the branches in Oklahoma City can help you.”
A silent challenge crested in his gray eyes, and she met it
with her own defiance.
Stevens walked to the door and turned, carrying his camera
the way patrons carried books. “Know what? This town would
be a great place to hide out a CIA operative.”