Keeper of the Bride

photo to the rest of your family. They don’t recognize him, either.”

“It must be a mistake. Even if the man’s alive, he has no reason to kill me.”

“Someone else could have hired him.”

“You’ve already explored that. And all you came up with was Daniella.”

“That’s still a possibility. She denies it, of course. And she passed the polygraph test.”

“She let you hook her up to a polygraph?”

“She consented. So we did it.”

Nina shook her head in amazement. “She must have been royally ticked off.”

“As a matter of fact, I think she rather enjoyed giving the performance. She turned every male head in the department.”

“Yes, she’s good at that. She certainly turned my father’s head. And Robert’s, too,” Nina added softly.

Sam was moving around the room now, pacing a slow circle around the couch. “So we’re back to the question of Vincent Spectre,” he said. “And what his connection is to you. Or Robert.”

“I told you, I’ve never heard his name before. I don’t remember Robert ever mentioning the name, either.”

Sam paced around the couch, returned to stand by the fireplace. Against the background of flames, his face was unreadable. “Spectre is alive. And he built a bomb intended for you and Robert. Why?”

She looked down again at the photo of Vincent Spectre. Try as she might, she could conjure up no memory of that face. The eyes, perhaps, seemed vaguely familiar. That stare was one she might have seen before. But not the face.

“Tell me more about him,” she suggested.

Sam went to the couch and sat down beside her. Not quite close enough to touch her, but close enough to make her very aware of his presence.

“Vincent Spectre was born and raised in California. Joined the army at age nineteen. Quickly showed an aptitude for explosives work, and was trained in demolitions. Saw action in Grenada and Panama. That’s where he lost his finger — trying to disarm a terrorist explosive. At that point, he could have retired on disability but—”

“Wait. Did you just say he was missing a finger?”

“That’s right.”

“Which hand?”

“The left. Why?”

Nina went very still. Thinking, remembering. A missing finger. Why did that image seem so vividly familiar?

Softly she said, “Was it the left middle finger?”

Frowning, Sam reached for his briefcase and took out a file folder. He flipped through the papers contained inside. “Yes,” he said. “It was the middle finger.”

“No stump at all? Just…missing entirely.”

“That’s right. They had to amputate all the way back to the knuckle.” He was watching her, his eyes alert, his voice quiet with tension. “So you do know him.”

“I–I’m not sure. There was a man with an amputated finger — the left middle finger—”

“What? Where?”

“The Emergency Room. It was a few weeks ago. I remember he was wearing gloves, and he didn’t want to take them off. But I had to check his pulse. So I pulled off the left glove. And I was so startled to see he was missing a finger. He’d stuffed the glove finger with cotton. I think I…I must have stared. I remember I asked him how he lost it. He told me he’d caught it in some machinery.”

“Why was he in the ER?”

“It was — I think an accident. Oh, I remember. He was knocked down by a bicycle. He’d cut his arm and needed stitches put in. The strange part about it all was the way he vanished afterward. Right after the cut was sutured, I left the room to get something. When I came back, he was gone. No thank you, nothing. Just — disappeared. I thought he was trying to get away without paying his bill. But I found out later that he did pay the clerk. In cash.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No.” She gave a shrug. “I’m terrible with names.”

“Describe him for me. Everything you remember.”

She was silent for a moment, struggling to conjure up the face of a man she’d seen weeks ago, and only once. “I remember he was fairly tall. When he lay down on the treatment table, his feet hung over the edge.” She looked at Sam. “He’d be about your height.”

“I’m six feet. Vincent Spectre’s five-eleven. What about his face? Hair, eyes?”

“He had dark hair. Almost black. And his eyes…” She sat back, frowning in concentration. Remembered how startled she’d been by the missing finger. That she’d looked up and met the patient’s gaze. “I think they were blue.”

“The blue eyes would match Spectre’s. The black hair doesn’t. He could’ve dyed it.”

“But the face was different. It didn’t look like this photo.”

“Spectre has resources. He could’ve paid for plastic surgery, completely changed his appearance. For six months we assumed he was dead. During that time he could’ve remade himself into an entirely different man.”

“All right, what if it was Spectre I saw in the ER that day? Why does that make me a target? Why would he want to kill me?”

“You saw his face. You could identify him.”

“A lot of people must have seen his face!”

“You’re the only one who could connect that face with a man who was missing a finger. You said he was wearing gloves, that he didn’t want to remove them.”

“Yes, but it was part of his uniform. Maybe the only reason for the gloves was—”

“What uniform?”

“Some sort of long-sleeved jacket with brass buttons. White gloves. Pants with this side stripe. You know, like an elevator operator. Or a bellhop.”

“Was there a logo embroidered on the jacket? A building or hotel name?”

“No.”

Sam was on his feet now, pacing back and forth with new excitement. “Okay. Okay, he has a minor accident. Cuts his arm, has to go to the ER for stitches. You see that he’s missing a finger. You see his face. And you see he’s wearing some sort of uniform….”

“It’s not enough to make me a threat.”

“Maybe it is. Right now, he’s operating under a completely new identity. The authorities have no idea what he looks like. But that missing finger is a giveaway. You saw it. And his face. You could identify him for us.”

“I didn’t know anything about Vincent Spectre. I wouldn’t have thought to go to the police.”

“We were already raising questions about his so-called death. Wondering if he was still alive and operating. Another bombing, and we might have figured out the truth. All we had to do was tell the public we were looking for a man missing his left middle finger. You would have come forward. Wouldn’t you?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“That may be what he was afraid of. That you’d tell us the one thing we didn’t know. What he looks like.”

For a long moment she was silent. She was staring down at the book of mug shots, thinking about that day in the ER. Trying to remember the patients, the crises. Sore throats and sprained ankles. She’d been a nurse for eight years, had treated so many patients, that the days all seemed to blend together. But she did remember one more detail about that visit from the man with the gloves. A detail that left her suddenly chilled.

“The doctor,” she said softly. “The doctor who sutured the cut—”

“Yes? Who was it?”

“Robert. It was Robert.”

Sam stared at her. In that instant, he understood. They both did. Robert had been in the same room as