Hidden in Xanadu

By Jacqueline Hand

HIDDEN IN XANADU is the story of suspended rules, the outward serenity and inner chaos of two ordinary people who are thrust into the world of crime witnesses and how they devise an imaginative way to live through it. Colleagues, GRACE DANVERS and MAX JOSEFS, witness a horrible crime and are whisked into protective custody by the FBI to contain the contamination of their testimony before trial. So abruptly has their world changed that Max and Grace feel as if they are in another reality; the constant companionship of the agents seems more like an invasion of privacy than protection; their custody more like captivity. To gain some control over their lives and blot out the ever-present, gruesome crime, they devise a game with their own rules and title the rules file Xanadu.

Max and Grace have made several documentaries together and are attracted to each other. In their fifties, both are embarrassed about making love with each other, know it will change their friendship irrevocably. They devise a game to become other couples in fiction and history to get past this sticking point. Neither is aware the agents listen to every word and action.

Grace, close to the breaking point, discovers the agents' listening, their complete violation. Max falls back on their game to save her and Grace finds the strength to rise above the betrayal. Their captivity and the game not only change their lives but the lives of the agents and enable Grace to testify at trial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 27, 2004
• ISBN: 9781462835539

Jacqueline Hand

JACQUELINE JACOVA HAND was raised in Illinois and lived in Paris, London and Los Angeles. She has written all her life, everything from newspaper columns, television concepts, screenplays, plays for children, to investigative reporting, but waited until she felt she had accumulated knowledge and understanding before she wrote her first novel at sixty. She taught screenwriting, writing for children, and English literature at colleges in the Southwest. She was the owner/editor/columnist of a newspaper in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. Her column, "The Last Angry Woman," was read in the White House. Now sixty-seven, HIDDEN IN XANADU is her first published novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

My darling daughter, Chesca,

Rain, like frightened birds, beats against our windows. So beats my heart as I begin this year of mad-making exile. I am at that moment of unreasonable panic; that is, panic not based on any known facts, when I know I can’t run, but want to run, and panic doubled at where to run or to whom. Experience has taught me it will pass. At this moment, I feel someone I know sends me desperate messages—even last-minute-just-before death messages. I go through all those who are important to me, those I love. No clear and present signal comes through, but the danger is felt like the barrel of a loaded weapon on the skin of my forehead. I raise my eyes to the window to see through the insistent rain to a diminished cloud cover above the white-capped lake. The rain lessens and waves lick at the small dock, swallow the end pylons, and spit them back out.

Last night, the lake was no friendlier. Chased by the moon, we came by jet, helicopter, and launch to our island in the dark. Hurry, it seemed to say, or you’ll be caught in this netherworld of half-light. It bathed our faces in the launch, made us all ghostly figures, who glided with ghost-like steps across the water. In one last defiant gesture, it threw its light behind us when we landed, gave us long, peril-filled shadows. Golden lodge windows were the only beacons of welcome in our ashen moonscape. At least, I thought so at the time, however with this incessant rain, I have my doubts.

Before the rains began this morning, I was able to take a fast walk through the pines behind the lodge. Snow still clings to north-facing gullies and under scanty bushes. Small green plants have pushed their tips through earth’s cover and stretch toward the light. In the mud of a neglected kitchen garden are one-long-one-short, one-long-one-short tracks of rabbits. Small rabbits are more than small comforts. A curious owl called to me at bedtime last night—not a frightening sound, an evocation-of-childhood-summers sound. He wonders, as I do, why I am here . . .

Grace Danvers sat up and pulled another wool blanket over her, its musty smell irritated her sinuses. Her arms were warm to the touch, but her whole body felt chilled. It was the coldness of being alone. How bizarre that she could feel so alone with five other people around her, five strangers, except for Max. Max she knew somewhat—dark eyed, curly haired, pleasantly round Max—was comfortable with him. Wasn’t comfort warmth? Wasn’t the knowledge of someone with whom you felt invigorating heat when you were in close proximity enough to carry comforting warmth with it when you parted? Wasn’t there some protracted effect, some law of thermodynamics that explained the phenomenon? She listened for sounds from Max’s room, any sounds that would connect her to a past warmth of a human heat-transferring body. A soft, pleasant murmur came to her through the walls. He must be talking to Crazy, his dog. How strange that he could bring his dog; talk about heat giving.

Max Josefs turned off the bedside lamp and sat on the edge of his bed. The room felt solid—wood plank walls, painted forest green to mirror the enveloping pines—red plaid, plump chairs in the warmth in front of the fireplace—furniture that had the look of homemade chisel and stain. The fire in the fireplace gave everything a burnished gold edge, a wood-smoke smell. All in all a comfortable room.

He could make it through a year here no matter how his gut churned at night when the sparseness of noise let in terrifying memories close to hallucinations, when the night sounds bounced against the walls, awoke him and caused him to struggle to flush these aberrations down the toilet of his conscious into the elbowed plumbing of his sub-conscious. He would use his keyboard, could almost feel a vibration from its case at the foot of the bed, to sublimate the lack of his real life.

This was not like him; he could always put a positive spin on things. Life was so much more pleasant that way. So much less injurious to hide from things. He listed the advantages of being away from his career, his friends, and what little family he was close to. He did have music he wanted to write, and the shelves downstairs in the great-room were filled with books to read. The fridge and pantry were filled with food, wine, and beer. There seemed to be enough room to walk around the island. And Grace had always been a good companion with her bright eyes and happy face. This notched down his negativism.

And, of course, Crazy was with him. He had pleaded with the FBI to let the dog come and had to promise to pay for his food. Crazy, on the hearthrug, raised his head and wagged his tail. Max had long ago accepted the fact that Crazy read his mind. Crazy put his head back down, wiggled around a little, and was asleep again in front of the fire.

. . . . A loud, sharp noise assaulted Grace’s ears, brought instant fear. Someone pushed her and she fell against Max. They both fell. Blood pooled around her friend lying on the floor. Grief was added to her fear. She tried to move to get out of there. Someone would come for her next. Her heart raced. Run! Get out! She couldn’t move . . . .

When Grace awoke the next morning, the shadow of the dream she refused to remember echoed in the leaden clouds, which gathered across the lake to the west. If she wanted to explore the island, she had better hop to it. She dressed and was half out the door when she remembered she had to wear her two-way radio. They had been told last night they would have to wear them when they went outside without an agent. Halfway down the stairs, the aroma of brewing coffee seemed a friendlier welcome.

In the kitchen, Grace found the dark-eyed Special Agent Beverly Archuleta. I let the dog out. Was that OK? Grace nodded. I’m on KP today. We’re sorta three on duty all the time. It’s sorta twelve on and twelve off. The one who has KP gets to rest in-between meals if possible. The coffee’s ready. She pointed to the coffee pot. I make Mexican coffee with cinnamon. Raised in New Mexico. Hope you like Southwestern food. That’s about all I know how to cook.

Grace could see that this stocky, young woman was all muscle. This was something she called herself with full knowledge that she didn’t have the muscles and, in her case, stocky was a euphemism for chubby. The softness of Archuleta’s smile and the dark curls around her face took away the appearance of threat that came with the 9mm Glock bulge under her sweater. Not that she would have known what kind of gun Special Agent Archuleta carried if Max hadn’t told her.

Grace poured herself a cup of coffee, and said, I love Southwestern food. Where you from in New Mexico?

Abiquiu.

Georgia O’Keeffe’s land?

Yeah, I used to see her when I was a kid. My father was a farrier, shoed everybody’s horses.

That’s beautiful country. I like it better than Santa Fe. The spacious kitchen invited her inspection while she drank her coffee. She read the titles of cookbooks on a shelf above one counter, looked over the professional gas stove, opened and closed the doors on the extra-wide, double-doored refrigerator, read the aphorisms on the two magnets on the fridge, one said: A stitch in time saves nine; the other, There’s no time like the present. Had the FBI placed them there?

Breakfast burritos OK? The choice is mine, but if there’s anything you don’t eat?

Anything you fix’ll be fine. If I have time, I’d like to go for a walk before . . .

Sure. Just yell when you get back. We’ll only set up a schedule if it’s necessary. That’s how I operate. Some of the others are different.

It seemed as if there were a few perks after all, no cooking or cleaning except for her room and bath. That could be handled in a breeze, which was an appropriate metaphor for today. She went out the backdoor toward the towering lodge pole pines, blue spruce, warm cedar, shrub-like alders, and firs. A few minutes later, she had to stop to take a deep breath, not from over-exertion, but to fill her lungs and mind with the pure, green smell of the woods to replace the stuffed up, vehicle smell of the city.

After she had gone about a quarter of a mile, the land dipped and a few gullies ran off to the north. Here she found snow though it was the seventh of April. In a clearing a little farther on, where the sun hit the southern-facing slope, small chartreuse plants poked up tender shoots through the diminishing snow. When she pushed the snow back to help the struggling plants, large mosquitoes exploded into the air around her. She swatted, flailed and ran. The ambiguity of the delicate, young plants and biting mosquitoes hidden beneath stung her too. Would a spring come soon?

On the way back across what had once been a kitchen garden, she saw rabbit tracks. The rabbits were in for a shock when Crazy got wind of them; he had a lot of Beagle in him. Be prepared to run fast, little rabbits, run for your safe holes.

Hey, Max called from the back porch. He stood on the step with a cup of coffee in his hand. Max’s solid, soft around the middle body, his smile that pushed his round cheeks up to his metal-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes that were hidden behind the reflections on the glasses, his hairline that had moved back from his brow, the gray at his temples that widened his face, and his perfect nose and teeth that were compliments of modern medicine and his Beverly Hills origin comforted Grace’s inner needs, was a homecoming for her trammeled emotions.

Hey, right back at ya, she said. This was the greeting they used with each other ever since the first time they had worked together on a documentary for PBS Boston. They had been in Mongolia in the middle of nowhere—no, farther out than that—when they and their guide came upon a round, mud and straw hut. Max had yelled out, Hey! and Hey, right back at ya had come out of the hut door followed by a smiling, lanky American from Gasoline, Texas, U-S of A.

The first rain drops fell innocently onto Grace’s glasses and nose, but by the time she had reached the protection of the porch, it came down with strong purpose. They watched it until Max shivered. I’m going back in to the fire. He held the door for her and they went in to the heat of Special Agent Archuleta’s breakfast burritos.

After breakfast Max and Crazy went up to Max’s room. Time to make himself at home. He took his keyboard out of its case and set it up at a right angle to a window that looked out toward the lake. The rain on the window would make a nice accompaniment. His laptop set ready on the desk next to the keyboard. OK, everything was attached and plugged in. Now he could unpack his clothes and toiletries. While he was here, he would be a musician. Sure, he had his cameras with him, but cinematography would be an avocation in this out-of-sequence time. All the music that was pushed up against his brain would get the chance to see the light of day while he was exiled on this island. When he ran his fingers over the keyboard, it sang back to him as if it waited for his touch. Last night’s resolution would hold; this time away from civilization would be positive for him.

Grace paused with her unpacking to see if the rain had slackened. The view from her window was the front lawn and the soaked guard hut at the edge of the lake by the dock. Though it wasn’t much bigger than her double closet here, it was the center for Operation Keep Grace and Max Alive. Inside those logs and chinking, some sort of modern communication system hummed, ready to put out a distress signal if needed. She shivered and removed a spider web in the corner of the window she was sure she had removed last night, and hurried down to lunch. A few minutes later, Max followed.

FBI Special Agent in Charge Eddie Cameron greeted them. They had learned at their meeting last night that he was the SAC. Their lives were in the hands of this tall, young African-American. His hands seemed to be strong enough to take care of them.

Cameron said, I’d like to go over the schedule with you. Grace and Special Agent Archuleta exchanged smiles. I’ve posted our schedules on the board by the door. He pointed to a corkboard by the door between the kitchen and this room they called the great-room. It’s not a schedule for you to go by. You’re free to keep whatever schedule you want as long as it doesn’t make for too many meals for the person on KP duty. Some of us like to cook more than others. This is to let you know who is on duty at any given time. We’re here to help you as well as protect you. The four of us have worked with each other in several different configurations. Once before, a couple of years ago, we four worked together and we all got along fine. In fact, when I heard Special Agent Archuleta would be here, I would have asked to head up this detail if I hadn’t been assigned. I remembered Beverly’s homemade corn tortillas. Thin enough to see through. Agents Cameron and Archuleta exchanged smiles.

Grace wondered if it was only see-through tortillas that attracted Special Agent Cameron to Special Agent Archuleta?

Cameron said, I must reiterate that you are not to talk about the incident or anything surrounding it with each other. You have given your word and we believe you’ll stick to it.

My God, how could anyone call what they had gone through an incident or think that either she or Max would want to do anything, but forget it?

Cameron said, "We’re not only trained in weaponry, but as Emergency Medical Technicians and have psychological training to help you get through these long months with so little contact with the outside world. We have surveillance cameras on the periphery of the island that are screened from the guard hut so we’re always alert. There are motion lights on the front and back porch, more for our safety. We may have to turn them off if we have much animal traffic. We’ll try not to disturb the wildlife.

"From time to time we’ll go through emergency drills so we’ll all know how to react if needed. One long sound of the siren means a safety drill, two longs mean a fire drill, three shorts mean All Clear. Of course, if it’s an actual situation, there might not be a siren. You must wear your radios whenever you leave the lodge and answer whenever it beeps. Contact us immediately if you see anything unusual or, of course, anyone at all.

"The only wild life we’ve seen on this island are rabbits, squirrels, a couple of raccoons who tried to get into our garbage containers, and a few skittish deer that swam back to the island east of us.

You may take photos of the area, not the lodge, nor any of the agents. I have to sound like a father and ask you to turn off lights when they aren’t in use. Everything here is run by generators that are run on fuel oil and that only comes once a month. If we all cooperate, I believe there isn’t a situation might arise we couldn’t handle. We’ve tried to anticipate your needs. Special Agent in Charge Eddie Cameron’s credo was, ‘agents must be aware of all and every circumstance around them that they might encounter’—a quote imprinted on his eager mind from his instructor years ago.

We’re prepared to help with religious services if anyone wishes. Special Agents Archuleta and Minotti are Roman Catholic, Polinski is Lutheran, and I’m Episcopalian. We pretty much do our own thing in our rooms, but if you would like, we can have a service on Sunday mornings and Friday evenings. I know you were raised a Methodist, Grace, and you, Max, Reform Judaism. Is that how you say that? We have a leg of lamb and matzoh crackers for Passover tomorrow night. Max and Grace were astounded, Cameron pleased with himself. If you have any questions or if you have a need that isn’t met, come to us. This is an unusual and new situation for all of us. Any questions?

Cameron’s speech made their stay sound way too long to Max, but at this point he had no questions. Grace realized a new life had been set up for her by no choice of her own. She said, Sounds clear. We’ll speak up if needed.

Good, Cameron said. I’ve never participated in a Passover. I look forward to it. Enjoy your lunch. With that he left.

As soon as they were alone, they burst into laughter. When he could, Max stopped and said, Shit. It looks like the FBI is giving a Seder. This made them laugh even harder. Max took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue from a box that was placed on a shelf by the helpful FBI.

Did you know it was Passover?

Me? No, Max said. I haven’t celebrated Passover for years. But this ceremony shouldn’t be missed. Do you think they’ll all come to dinner with Tallit and yarmulkes? Who do you think will ask the questions? My guess would be Special Agent Cameron. He seems to be the youngest male. What’s a WASP like you going to do? Call it the Last Supper and wash everyone’s feet?

Nooo, don’t think so, but it should be interesting. Grace pulled out a chair and sat down. You think they brought a Haggadah or do you have the whole ceremony memorized?

I’m not certain I even remember the four questions.

And the four answers?

There are answers?

Is that the first question? Grace liked conversations with Max. You never knew where they would go, but you knew they would be interesting and usually funny.

Speaking of questions . . . Are all your needs being met?

Grace picked up her fork and made invisible circles on her plate. Why would here be different from any other place? Or should I say, Why is here different from all other places? Some needs are not met no matter where I am. Maybe it’s age. Maybe me.

Max rocked his chair back with his body and let it fall down. Ah, the lament of the sexually deprived single. Can sing a few bars of that myself. Do you think the good agent would be able to help us meet those needs?

Agent Archuleta stuck her head in the door and asked, Ready for lunch?

"Si, queremos almorzar ahora," Max answered. The words were correct even if the accent needed work. Special Agent Archuleta smiled her appreciation of his try.

After dinner Max, Grace, and Crazy, sat in front of the fire in Grace’s room. The mica shaded floor lamp by Grace’s chair shed sepia over the three of them as if they were suspended in time by an ancient camera. They sat, sunk in their own thoughts.

Crazy had followed Grace around all afternoon until she had asked Max if she could take him for a walk in the rain. The three of them ran from the back porch to the porous cover of pines. Max kept Crazy on a lead while he became acquainted with his surroundings so he would be able to find his way back. Grace asked, How couldn’t he? What do we have here? Forty acres? It’s an island, for chrissakes. A blind idiot with no nose could find his way back. He said nothing, but looked at Grace as if no good would come of it, and dropped the lead. Crazy took off, returned every five minutes or so and panted his happiness.

The first time he had come back, Max had said, All right. All right. But can he do it again? Crazy had taken off on cue.

Back in the present, Grace asked, You know what I have in my luggage? Our favorite liqueur. Want some?

Do you also have two glasses in your suitcase?

No, but I have one on the nightstand and one in the bathroom. I’ll wash them out. From the bathroom, Grace called, I figured I could always drink from the bottle in a pinch. She said, while she washed the glasses with her face soap, Remember that night at the Plaza after you won the cinematography award?

When Elliot puked on the Maitre d’? What all’d he have to drink?

Grace said, back in the room, I ran into Elliot about three months ago. He’s head of production for a company that does videos for schools. Goes all over the world. Would Elliot make a video about why they were here? She couldn’t bring herself to name the why.

Flames roared up the chimney when Max put another small log on the fire. Crazy bolted up, his ears raised as if he heard voices they couldn’t hear. Quiet for a time, they sipped their liqueur and watched the coruscating flames. I watched you get the award for The Tide Runs Crimson. You looked good, Max said.

I looked good?

Yeah, I said to myself that not only were you smart and talented enough to get the award, but you looked great doing it. You said just enough, not too much and not too little . . . of course, that’s what just enough means. You had on that red dress, dark red. Elegant. I was proud to call you my friend. He raised his glass to her, nodded and drank.

Thank you, Max. Hmm, no one has ever called me elegant. Now that you mention it, I had some class that night.

You’re one classy woman, Grace Danvers.

You’re not so bad yourself. Neither Special Agent Archuleta nor Polinski are married. One of them could start to look pretty good.

Anyone of us could get to look good after a year on this island.

So you think it’s a possibility that all or some of us could get our needs met given enough time? The wind blew the rain against the windows like thousands of hornets, but the glass resisted the intruders. Time is something that has begun to worry me. Maybe it was the big fifty birthday. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone. I miss someone to share with, an intimate relationship . . . Is that the politically correct way to say I’m a horny old broad who hasn’t been laid in years?

What happened to our lives, Grace? I was once young. Thirty pounds lighter. Had more guts to ask someone out and more guts to expect to sleep with someone. Now I just have more gut. Max patted his stomach. I find it hard to get up . . . Wrong choice of words. Now I find it’s a chore to ask anyone out, and I expect to be rejected. There’s a vast expanse between what I want and what I get.

I understand. It’s as if I’m on the outside looking in at life, that I’m no longer an active player, as if I’ve lost all my value as a sexual woman, no longer a marketable product. Maybe I need to lose a few pounds, but I don’t think it would help, I’ve just lost any value as a male’s sex partner. Grace reached for the liqueur bottle. Older men want young women, girls. Younger men want young women. Who does that leave?

Some of us aren’t like that. I mean we don’t all want girls. There comes a time when we want a conversation. What would I talk about with someone in her twenties? Anyway, I’m not a good one to ask about personal relationships, what the norm is. All my adult life I’ve felt second-class when it came to dating. I kept thinking it would change, get easier.

Ah, except it never does.

Max stared into the fire as if it would give him some answers. When I was young, I was a classic nerd. I had dates to all the important date nights in high school and college, but that was about it. There would be time enough later. Now I wonder where the time has gone. I’ll admit that men our age have it easier than women. Women still expect us to ask them. I don’t seem to want the same things I did. My body says have sex with anyone and the rest of me says no, wait for the right one.

I understand, Grace said. She, also, searched the flames. That’s our dilemma. Wait for the right one when our bodies say grab any him or her and hump away. Grace poured more liqueur into their glasses. I came close a few months ago to actually having sex with someone just to have sex. When it came down to it, I backed off. I was frightened it wouldn’t be what I wanted.

Or maybe you were frightened it would be what you wanted?

Maybe that was all she wanted or needed, an occasional good lay. No, she wanted more, she wanted someone to share even the unimportant details of her life.

Max wanted more than an occasional exchange of body fluids with someone, no matter how beautiful or expert that someone was. Someone to share with, care about, and laugh with. The laughing was important; nothing else mattered without the laughing.

The fire crackled, a log turned onto its side, fell to the back of the fireplace and sent small sparks up the chimney. In the middle of a dream, Crazy whimpered. And still the rain beat at the windowpanes.

Max yawned and stretched. Come on, Crazy. It’s time to let the lady get to bed.

The heavy night refused to close Max’s lids and brain. Grace and how they fit into each other’s lives floated around him. They seemed to have strong feelings for each other, and you couldn’t deny the ease they had. They talked about what was on their minds without editing anything that would deny a possible sexual encounter in the future, unlike the constant filtered out and weighed word of most conversations he had with women when there was a possibility of more than conversational intercourse.

What attracted him to Grace, he was definitely attracted to her, was his ease of self when he was with her. Yes, he liked how she looked. She was no slender magazine model doll, was solid, had enough body fat to be comfortable. Although this had not always been a prerequisite, it was now. Someone who looked so much better than he did would make him feel he needed to work on himself and he definitely didn’t want to feel guilty about his body. Grace understood his jokes, his wit, even laughed at his nonsense. Her face pleased him; it had a shine from inside, an honesty, and a happiness until now.

How would they both change after all that, or while they were here? He would look out for Grace. He could see a fragility now that hadn’t been there before. It gave him a purpose and he liked that.

Morning brought little light and more rain. Depressed, Grace said. A sharp, careening pain banged against her heart, which pulled her down into dark green, murky water. The rain didn’t help, however it wasn’t the reason or the cause, and she wanted to get as far away from either as fast as she could. Move. If she gave in to her feelings now, what would happen in a few months? Better to find some way to dispel the doom now. If she started at such a low point, where could she go when days were worse?

Max, in the kitchen with Special Agent Archuleta when Grace came down, poured coffee for her and said, Beverly’ll fix the leg of lamb for tonight. I’ll help with the dinner where I can. I can’t remember what all we should have. The bookshelves only produce a King James Bible.

Grace said, I’ve been to Seders at friends’. I remember hard-boiled eggs. No, roasted eggs. And bitter herbs.

Right, Max said. Haroseth. For mortar. Wine, almonds, and honey. Apples? Or are apples and honey at Rosh Hashanah?

Do whatever. We’ll never know and no one else will either, Beverly said.

What can I do to help? Grace said.

"See if you have anything in your computer about Passover in one of the encyclopedias. I think each question starts with Mah Nishtanah."

After breakfast Grace consulted an encyclopedia CD, and found a small amount of information on Passover, or Pesach in Hebrew, and a Seder. The symbolic meanings of the items on the Seder plate struck her as the most appropriate meal they could have under their present circumstances: unleavened bread, matzoh, the bread of bondage; bitter herbs, maror, to symbolize the bitterness of slavery; the roasted egg, baitzah, symbolic of life’s cycle—life and death.

No, they weren’t slaves, yet they were definitely in bondage. They had no choice in their coming or going. Their actions were restricted. Their contact with the outer world extremely restricted. When they would gain their exodus, they knew not. When she rose to stretch, she looked out the window and saw Special Agent Cameron in sweat clothes, earplug in ear, run across the front yard and into the pines to the left of the lodge. They had their captors no matter the casual dress.

The rest of the list of items gave some hope: roasted lamb bone for the paschal lamb; parsley or lettuce, karpas, symbolized new growth of spring; and Seder means order in Hebrew. She tried to download a Haggadah, the written Seder service, however she couldn’t, the encyclopedia pages were copyrighted. Now if only the sun would come out, she might begin to believe all would end well, except the rain still drew silver streaks on the outside of her window.

Max, after he read her notes, said, We seem to have the right holiday. Should we leave the goblet of wine for Elijah? It’s not likely he could find us here, but who knows? Could he be with the FBI too?

You’re not telling me the FBI will bring the Messiah?

Didn’t old J. Edgar think he was the Messiah? Max asked.

Or Mother Mary.

Both floors of the lodge were redolent of baking lamb and garlic. Max surveyed the Seder table items arranged on a large platter: the matzoth were under layers of white cloth napkins; each place had four wine glasses for the four toasts; and the extra goblet for the prophet Elijah stood empty at the end of the table. Grace’s centerpiece of green holly and ivy leaves brought a touch of elegance. A Haggadah, the Seder ceremony put together from what Max could remember and what was available on Grace’s computer, had been placed beside each plate. Special Agent Cameron had said the agents would each partake of half the ceremony. All would be touched by Judaism tonight. And hadn’t they always been?

Grace put on the one and only dress she had brought with her, an ankle-length black jersey with long sleeves, scooped neck, that didn’t cling to the body. This was as dressed-up as Grace believed was appropriate for her years and shape. When she had been told she had one hour to get her things together, her mind had refused to grasp the enormity of the statement; she had grabbed without thought. This had been in the grab. Never before had she packed without separate lists for clothing, cosmetics, vitamins, books, and any other lists that were appropriate for the trip. She had to talk fast to get them to pack up her computer and printer. She had three reams of paper and two extra ink cartridges. But did she have black, dress shoes?

The meal went well. Beverly’s cooking was more than adequate. Max conducted the ceremony, the customs and traditions explained as they went along, and asked them all to read a part of the Haggadah.

Agents Polinski and Minotti replaced Agents Archuleta and Cameron after the second glass of wine. Kris Polinski was tall, thin, with a long, blond braid down her back, a true representative of her Norwegian mother and Polish father. Carmine Minotti came from Little Italy, New York City, and his accent and attitude came with him. He was as gregarious as Kris was quiet.

Had the agents been picked for their ethnic diversity? They were a little United Nations in themselves. The lone non-Christian in the group, Max was in charge for this night anyway. He raised his glass to finish the ceremony. "L’shanah habaah b’Yerushalayim: Next year in Jerusalem."

Grace said, Next year in Jerusalem. Anywhere if it’s by my choice. The agents looked puzzled, but Max understood. Crazy diverted their attention with a bark and run at the door. Carmine took him out to see what caused the barking. Was it Elijah?

Again Max relaxed in front of the fire in Grace’s room. Will this be our habit like two old married people night after night? It’s not all that bad, a counterfeit connubial ideal. Warm and comfortable here and not just because of the fire. Grace’s sweetness—not a cloying stickiness, not an innocence, not naiveté . . ., but . . . yes, a trustworthiness. I could trust her with my life, nothing in her wants to hurt me.

I think your Seder went well, Max. Grace poured their liqueur.

Why did I do it?

Maybe since Special Agent Cameron had the lamb and matzoh, you didn’t want to disappoint him.

Max took a sip of the liqueur and said, That and what else is there to do?

How many things have we done in our lives just because they were there to do?

Who said half of success in life is just showing up? Max said. How many things have we not done because it took a little effort?

Like my New Year’s Eve party?

Yeah, exactly. I regretted it. It would have been hard to get a taxi and it was too cold to walk that far. Subway’d be full of drunks. About eleven-thirty, I was in front of the TV alone and wondered if it was too late to come . . .

You should have. Year before you were in Paris for the big celebration. I was in California with Chesca and family. We had good conversation, good wine, and good food. Lots of laughs. We even danced at midnight?

Add some good sex and everything would have been perfect.

If you don’t have group sex in mind, I agree with you. Of course, it’s been so long since I’ve had any sex, I’m not certain I can say that with any degree of assuredness.

Max turned his face away from hers before he said, The last time I had sex I was so anxious I couldn’t get it up. Talk about embarrassing. I was still horny and had to go home and take care of myself. Which means I could have stayed home to arrive at the same place. I am pitiful, Grace. Pitiful. Both emitted sounds akin to laughter.

Aren’t we all?

Not you, Grace.

You want to talk pitiful? Listen to this. A few months ago, I tried to see a penis. And don’t mention penis envy. It’s not some hidden desire for power. Just a natural lust for the opposite sex and the thing that literally connects us. Do you know how hard—oops wrong choice of word—how difficult it is to see a penis? Unless you want to watch God-awful X-rated movies, you cannot get a glimpse of one. One day, I stood in a bookstore and thumbed through art books to get a glimpse of the illusive things. Max laughed. Most were on old Greek statues, frozen forever in limp and crumbled shapes.

I must admit that is pitiful, nevertheless I think I can top that. I’m still so hopeful I brought condoms with me.

Wait a minute. Before you knew there were two female agents? Max nodded. Who did you think was a possibility? Max found Crazy’s paw of great interest, pushed it with his foot. Grace said, I’m flattered. Was it some previous feeling or did you think since we would be here alone, so to speak, we might as well give it a shot, or that we would both be so desperate we would sacrifice our friendship and working relationship for a bit of sex?

Probably all of the above.

Shit, Grace said. You could have, at least, said it was my charm and beauty.

Actually, it’s your intelligence and wit that attract me. Can’t that be a reason to have sex with someone?

The fire gave a little puff and sparked. Grace stirred herself, leaned over, and poured a small amount of liqueur into their glasses and sat back, studied the slender, glowing, chestnut bottle. We are truly pathetic.

Yeah. Will we become like new-born babies who no one touches and die?

That is truly pathetic. Give me a hug and I’ll hug back and then leave me if you can’t talk about something more cheerful than dying from lack of being touched.

They hugged each other and Max said, That was nice. Did it help you? Crazy got up and pushed his way in-between them.

It didn’t hoit. They hugged again. Grace leaned down and scratched Crazy’s ears and didn’t sit back down. The night had gone about as far as either wanted it to.

Both were left with a wistfulness brought on by the dichotomy of their fear to change their friendship if they pushed the boundaries and their readiness to think about anything that would cover the struggle to hide their unbidden thoughts, all but forbidden by the FBI.

Was Max serious about the sex? Their friendship meant more to Grace than casual sex; this she had told herself more than once. Anyway she didn’t think she wanted casual sex. It was hardly worth all the nervousness and anxiety for a one-night-stand. Of course she could just ask him to show her his penis. She laughed and crawled into bed. She just might ask him.

Max pulled on another wool blanket to shield himself from the unremitting rain. What had he tried to say? Had he asked her to have sex with him? Of course. Had he really been attracted to her before? Certainly. Did he think they would eventually be attracted to each other? Not exactly. He hoped, and what he did was lay the thought on the table to precipitate his laying her on the table; no subtlety there. He could at least show her his penis. Shit. He had given himself an erection. Damn. Sometimes you were so close to the possibility of sex that to masturbate seemed to diminish that possibility. He turned on the light and went over to his keyboard. Through his earphones, he played a few bars that ran through his mind. Sublimation again. Was that the title of the notes he played or the act of playing them?

Gray clouds partially obscured the sun the next morning. After a quick cup of coffee, Grace and Crazy went for a run. Grace dodged low-hanging branches and fallen limbs until she stopped to rest. She could hear a panting Max call their names. With flapping ears, Crazy took off in the direction of the voice. Grace continued, walked instead of ran, a little out of breath herself. Maybe this year would be good for her, get her back into shape.

Max could see Grace several yards in front of him. He yelled to her, and she stopped and waved. A shaft of sun fell across her hair, flashed gold through the brown. He had never seen her wear her hair differently, always straight, below her chin. He liked Grace’s hair, the way it always moved, shiny, clean, and healthy, smelled like flowers. She waited for him to pant up to her. I didn’t realize I was this . . . . out of shape . . . Guess . . . I can try to do . . . this . . . every day.

Just what I was thinking. Grace picked up the pace and Max managed to keep up with her. Just as she gained some strength, the siren that announced a drill tore through the quiet and they ran back to the lodge.

Grace said, This should be interesting.

All except Carmine assembled in the great-room. Eddie said that the situation today was what to do if someone came to the lodge and Max and Grace were not in the lodge. You’ll be notified on your radios and told where to go and what to do. Today we have a hostile visitor at the guard hut. So now I want you to go back to where you were when we sounded the siren.

As they went out the back door, Grace said, They couldn’t have told us this on our phones?

Max said, Radios, Grace, radios.

When they had arrived at approximately the same spot, Grace’s radio beeped. She answered and said yes, both she and Max were together, gave them their location to the best of her ability, and said they would come back slowly toward the lodge, and wait in the trees for Special Agent Polinski to come get them. Yes, they would keep silence. They stifled their laughter. When they arrived at the trees behind the lodge, Kris came down into the trees and told them to follow her into the lodge and up the stairs, to stay in Max’s room away from the windows. Amused, they waited until they heard the All Clear.

Max said, Is this helpful at all?

Lets you know what to do. Keeps us on our toes, Kris said. We are here for a reason. Are you ready for breakfast?

Special Agent Cameron, who acted as if all this game playing was normal before breakfast any day of the week, served breakfast. Once again he reminded them to call him Eddie. He served multi-grain muffins he had baked, a bowl of oranges, bananas, tangerines, and whole-fruit jams. When he asked them if they wanted latte or cappuccino, Grace whispered to Max, This place is as good as a four-star restaurant and comes with its own entertainment.

Am I allowed to ask you anything about yourself? Max said to Eddie.

It depends.

Like how long you’ve been in the FBI? Where you’re from? Max shrugged.

I can answer that. Eight years. L.A. Loquaciousness was not a part of the answer apparently.

Grace asked, Are you married?

I’m married and we have two children. You have a daughter and two grandchildren, right? He smiled at Grace. It’ll be hard to be away from them. I can understand that.

He didn’t need to ask them any personal questions. He knew all about them. Her irritation hidden, Grace said, Will you have to be here the whole time? I mean, won’t you be relieved? Is that the right word? She was intimidated by the agents, more so by the male agents than the female agents. Women could always communicate. Communication lessened the threat. Men, with any kind of badge, were intimidating. That had something to do with the badge, the need to hide their true selves behind it.

Eddie nodded and said, It depends on the situation and that’s all I can say about that. Would you like a refill on that latte? The question and answer period were over.

Perhaps if she wrote her daughter Chesca, short for Francesca, a letter it would ease Grace’s ache to see her and her two grandchildren, four-year-old Jordan and almost-seven Thomas. Also Matt, her son-in-law.

She couldn’t have chosen a better son-in-law. In reality she and Chesca hadn’t had a choice; Matt had chosen them. From the first moment he saw Chesca huddled in the doorway of the building, crying and bloody, he knew he loved her. Even after all these years, Grace shivered and tears welled up in the corners of her eyes every time the embedded memory of Chesca attacked and raped shouted at her. Matt had lifted Chesca up into his arms without a word and hailed a taxi, had taken her to the nearest hospital, and saved her life.

Chesca had put her arms around his neck when he lifted her up and had never let go. That was the way he wanted it. It wasn’t as if they were locked together, Chesca had her work in the children’s advocacy center, and Matt was always there for her. He was there for Grace too. He even liked her. Several times a month he would call just to talk.

Grace turned on the computer and saw their faces. For the first time since she had arrived, the weight of the long year before her sat on her chest, an incubus with heavy chains. Tears ran down her face. Rain ran down the window. The wind found a chink in the caulking and blew cold on the back of her neck, the chink clearly felt.

In full retreat, Grace went to her bed and lay down, pulled the wool blanket at the foot of the bed over her and, before she could think any more about her situation, was asleep. When she awoke, it was dark outside. Her clock read six o’clock. Was it stress that had let her sleep so long or was it just her circadian clock that was out of sync?

Special Agent Minotti ate dinner with them and helped Cameron serve. He talked all the while, danced around them, as if he could fill in all the empty spaces of their present lives. He told them they were in for a treat with Eddie’s cooking and gave them a detailed picture of Eddie’s latest culinary successes. Grace was hungry and the aromas of various herbs that came from the kitchen made it hard to wait. After her nap, she was refreshed and dragged-down at the same time. Food would help.

Eddie had prepared a braised salmon with julienned vegetables and wild rice that looked so good it cheered her. Wow.

See, just like uptown, Minotti said. Wait until you see dessert. He kissed his fingers. Forget about it. He exaggerated his accent, sounded like a movie Italian, and like non-New Yorkers expected him to sound.

Max said, If this gets out, Eddie, you’ll have people clambering to get in here.

Why you think I came, huh? Minotti said.

Special Agent Minotti, Grace said, were your parents first or second generation American?

Call me Carmine. First, my grandfather came from Rome when he was a young man and then sent for my grandmother. She married him the day she stepped off the boat. The neighborhood had a three-day party. He shook his head and said, They don’t do things like that much any more.

Eddie didn’t disappoint with his dessert—lemon soufflé. They all had seconds. Exercise would be a necessity not a choice.

Before she went upstairs, Grace stepped out onto the front porch. Moonlight fell across the front lawn through striated clouds, painted a white variegated path. She wished on one of the early stars that twinkled above,  . . . get the wish I wish tonight. I wish this year flies by and goes no longer. Technically she supposed that was two wishes. She watched the moon glide away from the clouds, touch the lake, the dock, the guard-hut, the walkway, and finally her face. Who wrote that poem that said the moon is always female? Maybe it’ll be sunny tomorrow. She turned to go inside, but was halted.

From across the lake, across the night-lighted waters, behind the darkened trees, over unseen and unknown hills, empty gullies and ridges, came the soul-tearing, heart-chilling song of a wolf. To whom did he call? Long, high, hollow unwavering notes held themselves in the night air, one after another until the last long note climbed slowly higher and let itself slide down into the sharp spring quiet. The first notes clutched Grace’s soul and squeezed it with terror. Followed, almost immediately, by the second set of notes that loosed the grip of the first. Their beauty, the majesty of the song, filled her with a wild joy. She wanted to run to the wolf, to join in its call, to cry out to all who could comprehend that life could be crystal pure to those who had the courage to accept its every experience. To cry out to those who understand the fire it takes to reach the purity. "My dear loup du nord, I hope you find a mate equal to your own understanding." With a heavy reluctance, she went back inside.

In her room with Max and Crazy, although it had taken awhile, it was again cozy. They had developed a routine. Not a bad routine. Moonlight and firelight, the room suffused with both for them