Homeport

beam of light. The one who studied her sat in the dark. The mind was cold, calm, and clear, as it had been when murder was done.
    Murder had not been planned. The driving forces had been power and what was right. If all had gone correctly, if all had gone well, violence would not have been necessary.
    But it had not gone correctly, or well, so adjustments had been made. The blame for the loss of two lives lay with the theft of the David. Who could have anticipated, who could have controlled such an event?
    It would be termed a wild card. Yes, a wild card.
    But murder was not as abhorrent as one would think. That too brought power. Nothing and no one could substantiate the existence of The Dark Lady and be permitted to exist. That was simple fact.
    It would be taken care of, it would be dealt with, cleanly, completely, and finally.
    When the time was right it would end. With Miranda.
    It was a pity such a bright and clever mind had to be destroyed. Reputation alone would have sufficed once. Now, everything had to be taken. There was no room for sentiment in science, or in power.
    An accident perhaps, though suicide would be best.
    Yes, suicide. It would be so . . . satisfying. How odd not to have anticipated how satisfying her death would be.
    It would take some thought, some planning. It would take . . . A smile spread as slyly as that on the glorious face of the bronze. It would take patience.

    When The Dark Lady was left alone under that single beam of light, there was no one to hear the quiet laughter of the damned. Or the mad.
     
    Spring was drifting over Maine. There was a softness in the air that hadn’t been there even a week before. Or at least Miranda hadn’t felt it.
    On its hill, the old house stood with its back to the sea, its windows going gold in the setting sun. It was good to be home.
    She stepped inside and found Andrew in the den, keeping company with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Her quietly optimistic mood plummeted.
    He got to his feet quickly, swaying a little. She noted that it took his eyes several seconds to focus, that he hadn’t shaved in the last day or two, that his clothes were wrinkled.
    He was, she realized, well drunk, and likely had been for a couple of days.
    “Where’ve you been?” He took a couple of lurching steps, then caught her up in a sloppy hug. “I’ve been worried about you. I called everybody I could think of. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”
    Despite the heavy fumes of whiskey that hung around him, she knew his concern was sincere. Though she hugged him back, wanting that connection, her intention of telling him everything wavered. How much could a drunk be trusted?
    “I’m on leave,” she reminded him. “I left you a note.”
    “Yeah, and it didn’t tell me dick.” He drew back, studied her face, then patted her head with one of his big hands. “When the old man came to the Institute, I knew we were hip-deep. I got back here as soon as I could, but you were already gone.”
    “They didn’t leave me any choice. Did he come down hard on you?”
    “No more than expected.” He shrugged that off. Even with the whiskey hampering his instincts he could see something was different. “What’s going on, Miranda? What’d you do?”

    “I went away for a few days.” She made the decision to keep what she knew to herself, with regret. “I ran into Ryan Boldari in New York.”
    She turned away because she was a poor liar under the best of circumstances. And had never lied to Andrew. “He’s back in Maine now. He’s going to stay here for a few days.”
    “Here?”
    “Yes, I . . . We’re involved.”
    “You’re— Oh.” He ran his tongue around his teeth and tried to think. “Okay. That was . . . quick.”
    “Not really. We have a lot in common.” She didn’t want to dwell on that. “Has there been any progress in the investigation?”
    “We hit a snag. We can’t find the documentation on the David. ”
    Though she’d been expecting this, her stomach jumped. She ran a nervous hand over her hair and prepared to continue the deception. “Can’t find it? It should be in the files.”
    “I know where it should be, Miranda.” Irritated, he picked up the bottle and poured another drink. “It’s not there. It’s not anywhere in the Institute. I’ve looked everywhere.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Insurance company’s balking. If we don’t come up with it, we’re going to take the loss. You did the