The Delta Factor by Thomas Locke Read Free Book Online Page A

twenty-one months ago.
    During the ensuing period, Cliff had not forgotten her. Far from it. Deborah remained with him everywhere, that and the pride which had kept him from calling and trying to patch things up. He cursed his own pride almost as often as he did her stubbornness.
    Two months ago, she had called. Since then, their renewed contact had come in gradual stages. They had exchanged letters. They had talked on the phone. They had tested the waters, speaking about everything except what was most important.
    Then, this past week, she had asked him to come.
    It never occurred to him not to accept.
    ----
    Cliff made the trip in what he called his hobby car. The day was far too hot for open-air driving, but as the car had no air conditioning and little insulation between the engine and cockpit, the choice was either drive with the top down or bake.
    His final year in high school, Cliff had come across a ’67 Jaguar XKE sportster in absolutely wretched shape. A succession of uncaring owners had reduced the once-proud auto to little more than a rusted hulk. Cliff had spent the entire four years of college and every nickel he could earn or scrounge restoring the Jag to its former glory. He knew every screw, every coil, every stitch along its entire length by name.
    The Jag was long and low and ridiculously cramped for his six-foot-three frame. His feet rested on pedals a scarce eight inches behind the rumbling engine. From where he sat, the cowling ran on for miles. The car was hideously impractical, had more quirks than an old maid, and was so loud passengers had to shout to be heard. Cliff loved it to distraction.
    The body was a dark ivory, the color of milk with a dash of coffee. It shone with the rich luster of eleven coats of paint and weekly waxing. The canvas top and leather interior were matching saddle-brown. The chrome-and-wood dash shone like new, as did the wire-spoke wheels. The car turned heads everywhere it went.
    Cliff entered the Edenton city limits and purred his way down tree-lined streets. Deborah’s faxed instructions rested on the seat beside him. He was too distracted to notice much about the town, except that it seemed both quiet and picturesque. Then he spotted her waving from the veranda of a well-kept home. He steadied his nerves and wheeled into the parking lot.
    The first thing she said when he cut the motor was, “Still driving the old clunker?”
    â€œNice to know your tongue hasn’t lost its edge,” he said, pushing open his door.
    â€œDon’t ever gain weight,” she added, watching him swing himself to his feet. “You do, they’ll need a crowbar and a can of grease to pry you free.”
    Cliff stretched, played at casual, looked at the vast white house behind her. “Impressive. Is it yours?”
    â€œHardly. This is the town’s nicest guesthouse. There is no hotel. It’s called the Granville Queen and was built a year or so before the Revolutionary War.”
    Cliff nodded at the news. “I’ll have to pay for everything out of my own pocket.”
    â€œI’ve already been through this with the bean counters, who would just as soon treat you to a free weekend in Vegas and a real car. I did get you the company rate here, I hope that doesn’t stretch your ethics too far.”
    â€œLong as I pay.” Cliff dropped his gaze and inspected her.
    She looked old. And tired.
    Her hair was chopped short, as always. As long as he had known her, Deborah had treated her hair as a sort of curious biological accessory that had no modern purpose—sort of like an external appendix. But there was a lot of gray interrupting the mouse brown now, much more than there should have been for someone her age.
    Her face was drawn into sharper angles than he recalled. Fatigue lines traced their way out from her eyes.
    Her eyes, her brilliant probing eyes. Her eyes looked weary. Yet immensely happy.
    â€œI knew it was going to be great